


Reflection, Refraction

by XILVerify



Series: Dolls [5]
Category: ASTRO (Band), B1A4, K-pop, K.A.R.D (Band), VIXX, Weki Meki (Band)
Genre: ASTRO is a Bunch of Sweethearts, Adorable Ravi, Aftermath of Torture, All relationships are platonic, Alternate Universe - Baby (ASTRO Music Video), Alternate Universe - Breathless (ASTRO Music Video), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Blood and Violence, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dropkick The Witch Into The Sun 2k18, Ducks, Everything Comes Together in the End, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Groups other than VIXX and Astro are cameos, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Moonbin is a Concerned Puppycat, Physical Abuse, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Please Give VIXX So Many Hugs OMG, Ravi is a Good Helpful Boy, Team as Family, Torture, Voodoo Doll (MV), Whump, Worldbuilding, Yoojung is a Badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-05-29 15:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15075968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XILVerify/pseuds/XILVerify
Summary: Six abused dolls, owned by a narcissistic, vicious witch, that have known nothing but a life of enslavement and pain, who still manage to find purpose and meaning in the bonds they have forged with each other.Six sheltered boys, cared for by a zany, vivacious confectioner, that happily spend their idyllic days managing a magical soda shop, about to receive their first glimpse of humanity’s dark side.Or: A comparison and contrast between two diametrically opposed worlds and worldviews, what happens when said worlds and worldviews collide, and the ways the concept of family is universal.✶Χ✶Χ✶Χ✶Χ✶Χ✶Χ✶We like things to be black or white, tall or short, here or there. We like to consider two sides to every story. Unfortunately, there aren't always two sides. Sometimes there's only one; more often, there are multitudes. Many facets on the stone. Nooks and crannies in abundance. Things are usually not either black or white, but multicolored.― Barry Leiba





	1. An Offering of Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> I kept being attacked with plot ideas for this AU ever since I finished my first fic, so ta-da, here’s some additional worldbuilding/character interactions for you all. This was originally going to be a oneshot, but once I hit the 25 page mark with no sign of being done, I decided that I might as well split this thing up into parts. As always, many thanks to Erisette for being my partner in crime in this endeavor, and for graciously acting as a sounding board whenever I had questions or needed to brainstorm. 
> 
> Takes place chronologically between “Becoming Real” and “Dolls." In the interim since “Becoming Real” ended, the dolls have started using the proper names they have when “Dolls" begins. Just as a refresher:  
> N = ~~the doll~~ Smallest  
>  Leo = ~~the quiet one~~ Broken  
>  Ken = ~~the loud one~~ Loud  
>  Ravi = ~~the marked one~~ Inked  
>  Hongbin = her favorite  
> Hyuk = ~~the littlest/tallest~~ Tallest

She can’t remember much from Before anymore. Not really. There are so many things she’s forgotten over the years. Most of her childhood. Her mother’s face. Her father’s songs. The academy where she first learned what she could do with the magic that boiled through her veins, clamoring for some kind of outlet, where she first earned the title of “witch.” Where she used to live, before she ended up Here, in this bizarre patchwork world. Even her own name has been lost to the passage of time.

 

What she hasn’t forgotten, however, was that she’d always had a fascination with dolls. They were always her favorite playthings, ever since she was a small girl. She liked the way they continued to smile at her even after tearing their hair out, smashing their legs in a drawer, dismembering them one limb at a time. They never complained, never questioned her, no matter what she did to them. The same couldn’t be said for her other playthings; the flies she pulled the wings off of, the mice and frogs she caught and dissected, fascinated by their internal workings, they always tried to struggle and fight and flee from her, right up until they couldn’t anymore.

 

As she grew, she graduated from mice and flies and frogs to drunks and beggars, street rats and whores, the dregs of society who would never be missed. No matter how many playthings and research subjects she went through, though, there was always the niggling feeling that something was missing. Surely, there was some way to marry a living thing’s tendency to squirm and bleed and scream when in pain with a doll’s placid acceptance and increased durability to create the perfect subject for her needs. A being who could think and feel and respond normally to painful stimuli, but who would remain devoted to her regardless of how she treated them. The discovery of a cast-off, cursed, stuffed doll that allowed her to remotely control her playthings in the basement of the local magic academy only cemented her resolve.

 

She became obsessed with replicating the human form through her magic, studying everything she could about biology, anatomy, physiology, histology, and embryology. She also voraciously devoured every book she could get her hands on concerning magical constructs, artificial intelligences made out of magic, used for any number of practical purposes from manual labor to babysitters to toys. Her research was nearly ended when the townsfolk finally cottoned on to where the missing lowlifes were disappearing to, but she simply relocated her edifice to another dimension before they were able to apprehend her and continued on with her work. Small-minded peons, unable to properly appreciate or even understand her genius, her artistry. Well, she would show them. She would show _all_ of them.

 

Sure enough, after much trial, error, and frustration, she finally is the proud owner of six beautiful flesh and blood dolls; living, breathing works of art that she can play with to her heart’s content without fear of recrimination. After all, they’re still only dolls. Who in their right mind would begrudge her for using her property how she sees fit?

 

Speaking of which… She regards her third doll, glaring out at her stonily from behind the chain link door to his cage, one of his long, slender arms dangling at an unnatural angle from the upper arm down. Her third is by far the most difficult of her dolls to get a visible reaction out of, but his lovely body makes such wonderful shapes when she breaks it that she can’t bring herself to care overly much. This should get a reaction out of him, though. She shifts her grip on the little stuffed effigy and violently bends it backward, folding it in half at the base of what would be its spine.

 

In response, her third’s own spine gives way with a satisfying _crack_ , and he collapses to the floor, landing on his broken arm with a wince and a faint grunt of pain. She smirks in approval before a sneaking suspicion worms its way into her mind, and her face falls abruptly. Hoping she’s wrong, she snatches up a needle from her table and jabs it into the little doll’s leg. From all around her comes a chorus of gasps and grunts from the other dolls… but her third does not move. He doesn’t even twitch. Not even when she does it again, and then a third time.

 

Now considerably annoyed, she tosses the needle back on the table. Just as she suspected, his spinal cord must have snapped along with his vertebrae. Dammit. _Dammit_. Nerves are something she doesn’t like to mess with when it comes to her dolls, because their nerves are what transmit pain, and if their nerves are damaged, they can’t feel pain. And if they can’t feel pain, then what good are they to her, really?

 

She looks back at her third’s cold, inscrutable, delicate face, and almost, _almost_ breaks his other arm out of sheer spite, too… but with immense effort, she restrains herself. She remembers what happened with one of her old dolls, a long while ago, when she’d wanted to test how far she could go with her toys, if she could really damage them enough that they could die. She’d selected one and methodically broke every one of his bones, until she’d snapped one of his neck vertebrae and severed his brain stem, killing him almost instantly. While that had answered that question, she’s not in any hurry to create another doll anytime soon, given how much of a time and labor intensive process it is, and she knows that if she keeps going the way she was, her third will be out of commission for a long time, maybe permanently. So, reluctantly, she turns away from her third and surveys the rest of the room, pondering her next course of action.

 

She finds herself wanting to try something different today. Something new. Exciting. Experimental. She glances down at the little cursed doll in her hands and regards it thoughtfully. Its powers only extend to causing phantom pain in her subjects and leave no physical marks on them afterwards, except for the instances where their limbs are forced to bend in unnatural ways that cause their bones to snap, as evidenced by what just happened to her third. However… she’s reasonably sure that if she concentrated hard enough and used enough magic, there should be a way to translate the actual damage inflicted on the little effigy to her dolls made of flesh and blood. It would be difficult, which is why she hasn’t tried it before now, but she’s in the mood for a challenge.

 

As much fun it would be to affect them all at once, though… it probably would be more practical to just test it on one in case something goes wrong so that all her dolls aren’t put out of commission at the same time.  That leaves the question of who she should test this on first. It only takes her a few seconds of thought to decide on a target: her first doll. Her first true success and also her most problematic. She hadn’t quite worked all the bugs out of her dollmaking process when she created him, and those minute imperfections in his artificially-constructed psyche have proved to be most aggravating. He was the first to break free from her mental conditioning, to develop – _ugh_ – true autonomous thought and an actual personality, and she strongly suspects he had something to do with the rest of the dolls developing their own minds as well. She doesn’t know how, or why, but it’s a hunch, and her hunches are often correct. His defiance of her is at once both intriguing and infuriating. She _should_ kill him for it, she knows, and she almost did, once. But while she specifically created him to be docile and submissive, his newfound anger and his rebelliousness are simultaneously too fascinating for her to discard him just yet, or any of the others for that matter. There’s something immensely satisfying about putting him, putting them all in their place, a satisfaction that she never got when they were all merely her loyal thralls, content to just be used however she saw fit without protest. Reminding them who they belong to, despite all their attempts to break free of her, hasn’t gotten old yet. Their minds might beyond her reach now, but their bodies definitely aren’t, and as long as they can bleed and scream and cry, well. That's all that really matters to her at the end of the day.

 

Thus decided, she advances on her first’s cell, and pulls him up from his seat on his couch with a careless gesture of the little doll. He glares silently at her as his body moves without his consent, eyes full of loathing, and she bares her teeth at him in a vicious grin in return. Oh, this will be so _satisfying_ , she can hardly _wait_.

 

“Let’s try something new today, shall we?” she tells him sweetly, pulling him ever closer to her until he stands only a couple feet away on the other side of the shattered remains of his cell’s window. “But first.” She forces him to extend his left arm straight in front of him, hand directly over the tallest spire of sharp glass jutting up from below. It’s a very beautiful hand, she notes. Slender, long-fingered, warm brown skin. Even after all this time, she thinks her first doll is still some of her best work, aesthetically speaking. After admiring it for a couple seconds longer, she jerks the little effigy’s outstretched arm downwards, and that lovely hand impales itself on the sharp point of glass.

 

Her first makes a strangled sound deep in his throat, eyes clenching shut and teeth gritting against each other as she forces his hand down, down, until the glass pierces the skin on the back of his hand. She holds him there for a long minute, savoring the way his breath comes in harsh, ragged gasps, appreciating how pretty his blood looks as it trickles sluggishly down the glass before she finally lets up on the pressure. The second she does, he yanks his hand away and takes a step backwards before the effigy’s power forces him to halt. He stands there, frozen in place, breathing hard, cradling his damaged hand protectively to his chest as she unhurriedly reaches forward and snaps the bloodstained point of glass off the window. After taking a moment to admire the way the red fluid catches the light so pleasingly, she glances back at her doll.

 

All that time ago, when she’d bodily hurled him through this window in a fit of rage, she’d been past the point of caring that she had broken him so badly that he would likely succumb to his numerous injuries before she returned. Therefore, she’d been surprised and grudgingly impressed that he was somehow still alive by the time she saw him again, and decided to keep him around a bit longer after all. She never replaced his window, though, preferring to leave it a shattered, jagged mess as a constant reminder to him of what she is capable of and how thin a line he treads when he chooses to defy her. It seems only fitting that she conduct this experiment with a piece of his window, just to reinforce that concept.

 

By the sudden spark of visceral fear that ignites in his eyes when he sees the bloody piece of glass in her hand, he understands her intent perfectly, and it’s the single most gratifying thing she’s seen in a considerable while. She concentrates hard on the effigy, twisting her magic around it so as to increase the magnitude of its power over her doll.

 

_Hurt him_ , she soundlessly whispers to it. _Only him. Make him scream, make him **bleed**_.

 

Without preamble, she jabs the glass into the bottom of the toy’s foot, ripping clean through the fabric and eliciting a pained grunt from her first as he instinctually jerks up his right leg in response. She removes the glass from the doll and waits to see if her experiment was successful. Her first gingerly tries to set his foot back down, likely expecting the pain will start to fade as it normally does when she uses the doll to hurt them, but he barely gets it part of the way down before he hisses and yanks it back up again. He stops suddenly, a look of blank confusion appearing on his face, before he looks down to see red dripping off his bare toes. A grin of triumph spreads across her face, and a dawning look of horrified comprehension scarcely has time to cross her first’s before she plunges the glass into the little doll’s midsection, embedding it deep into its stuffing.

 

Her first’s knees hit the concrete barely a second later as he crumples to the floor and doubles over, arms wrapped reflexively around his middle as a winded keen of pain escapes him. She follows him down, crouching on the other side of the glass in order to make sure she sees his every little reaction to this new, exciting game. Her first’s eyes are wide and unfocused with pain and shock, crimson already starting to soak though his tattered sweater as he kneels, visibly trembling with the effort of keeping himself upright. When she shifts her grip on the glass, he gasps harshly, clamping down on his lower lip in an attempt to stifle the pained noises that keep trying to fight their way out of him.

 

“Go on,” she croons, leaning closer to the glass separating them. “Let it out. You know you want to.” _Show me that you’re mine._

 

She gives the shard a brutal _twist_ , her smirk widening in malicious satisfaction as the injured doll involuntarily lets out a sharp, choked sound of unadulterated agony, curling further in on himself in a futile attempt to escape the unseen force tearing his insides apart. _I’m yours…_

 

Hoping to elicit a more dramatic reaction, she yanks the glass nearly all the way out and ruthlessly rams it back into the tear in the effigy’s middle. _You’re **mine**._

 

Her first’s whole body jerks violently as the invisible magic rips into his flesh once more. His breath is forced from his lungs again in an explosive cough that sounds like it was punched out of him, a few tiny flecks of red appearing on his lips. Tears begin to leak out of his tightly closed eyes while blood drips faster from his midsection, forming a small puddle beneath him as a low, tortured groan finally escapes him. _Yours…_

 

“Come _on_ ,” she growls under her breath, beginning to lose patience with her first’s stubbornness, slowly, viciously dragging the glass upward, making the tear in the little effigy’s abdomen even longer. **_MINE!_**

 

Her first begins to tremble even more violently, to the point where it looks like he’s almost about to topple over, bent over so far that the fringe of his hair almost brushes the floor. His breathing comes in short, sporadic gasps, occasionally interspersed with soft, pitiful whimpers as tears flow freely from his eyes, still squeezed tightly shut. Finally, as the shard’s invisible counterpart begins to scrape against the bottom of his sternum, the pain just becomes too much for the poor doll to bear. Unable to contain it any longer, her first releases a piercing, agonized wail that echoes throughout the dungeon and sends delightful shivers down her spine. **_YOURS!_**

 

“That’s better,” she smirks when the last echo fades away completely, finally wrenching the glass out of the little doll. Small bits of stuffing cling to it as it’s pulled out, with even more leaking out of the sizable gash left in the fabric.

 

Her first lets out a loud, broken sob as the intruding presence in his body withdraws fully, leaving a deep, gaping wound behind. The blood dripping from his abdomen turns from individual drops to steady, unbroken rivulets. As he tries to catch his breath, his eyes suddenly fly open in alarm, and his raspy, shallow panting morphs into wet, heaving coughs, occasionally punctuated with strained, desperate gagging. With a final, violent retch, blood pours from his mouth in a thick, heavy stream, splashing onto the concrete in gorgeous, abstract patterns that make her almost giddy with glee.

 

All too soon, the stream of red slows to a trickle, and then subsides entirely, followed by a single, faint, breathless moan. Unable to keep himself upright any longer, her first feebly slumps forward and collapses to the floor, utterly exhausted. The ground beneath him is now completely covered in crimson, and she surveys the pathetic sight with immense satisfaction. _This_ is where dolls like her first belong: lying helpless before her in a lowly, filthy cage, too weak to even lift his head while his life steadily drains out of him, staining the concrete a beautiful, dark scarlet...

 

That last thought snaps her out of her euphoria, and she frowns slightly, for the first time objectively registering the sheer amount of blood painting the floor, how shallow and labored her first’s breathing is, how pale and fragile he looks. Well, damn. It looks like she was harder on him than she intended to be. If he continues losing blood at this rate, there’s a very real possibility that that he could be dead within the next cycle. No matter, she can just give him some food and he’ll be… hm. Her frown deepens. No, she can’t exactly do that with the state his internal organs are undoubtedly in at the moment. It looks like she has no choice; she’ll have to put him in with one of the others.

 

Not letting this fact put a damper on her much-improved mood, she straightens up and uses the little doll to levitate her first over the barrier of broken glass. She briefly considers dropping him on it for good measure, but knows she probably shouldn’t press her luck, and merely dumps him at her feet instead. His arms stay tightly clamped around his blood-soaked middle the entire time. Smart doll. He’d probably be in even worse shape by now if he hadn’t tried to instinctively staunch the bleeding. She’d recently been wondering how her dolls would fare if she didn’t stich them up after an injury that bled a lot; now’s the perfect time to test out how quickly he heals if she doesn’t sew up the wound. She can handle being down a single doll for a couple days, especially after he gave her such a satisfying show.

 

Her mind made, she tucks the effigy under her arm and bends down to survey her handiwork up close, cupping her first’s face in her hands and tilting his chin up toward her. He flinches at her touch as if it burns him, unfocused eyes fluttering open to glare at her. He tries, weakly, to jerk away from her touch, and amused, she simply holds him tighter, digging her fingernails into his flesh mockingly. Another thin stream of blood trickles from one corner of his mouth, down his chin, and she delicately wipes it away, keeping a firm hold on his jaw with her other hand to keep him from struggling. Her thumb lightly brushes his bottom lip as she wipes away the last bit of red, and she locks gazes with him.

 

_Well, pet, have we learned our lesson?_

 

A spark of that old, defiant fire rekindles in her first’s weary, pain-dulled eyes before they focus briefly on a point slightly to her left. To her surprise, he draws in a long, shuddery breath, closes his eyes, and goes limp in her grasp, submitting entirely to her. He clearly still wants nothing more than to pull away, but he evidently has remembered his place, and allows her do as she wills without resistance. Pleased, she slides her fingers up to fondle his wan, tearstained cheek, enjoying the way he tenses and trembles at every deceptively gentle caress.

 

Skin to skin contact between herself and her dolls is not an uncommon occurrence, though she does have to make sure they’re securely restrained before attempting it nowadays. There is no point in having playthings if one can’t be hands-on with them occasionally, after all. None of the others react to her touch quite like her first does, though, like it’s poison to him, and honestly, it’s such fun to tease him this way from time to time.

 

And yet, she’s caught a couple glimpses of the brief flashes of unmistakable longing that cross her first’s face on the occasions where she has to cage the other dolls with each other. She remembers how she’d put her sixth in with him once, only to find him tenderly cradling the younger doll in his arms once she returned; how he’d nestled so contently against her third - her cold, stoic third - when she had caged them together after she had thrown him through his window.

 

It both baffles and infuriates her. How dare her first crave the touch of anyone other than herself? How dare he spare even the briefest passing thought on anyone other than her? Possessive spite fills her at the very notion every time she’s reminded of it, and every time, she resolves anew that he will never get the chance to touch any of the other dolls again. _She_ is the only one allowed to touch him. And on that note…

 

She gives her first a final, condescending little pat on the cheek and then grabs a fistful of his hair to hold him immobile and upright while she straightens up. The other dolls are all focused intently on them, as they should be, and she surveys them all, trying to decide which one she should put her first in with.

 

Obviously not her third, who is injured himself and therefore won’t be much help. Not her sixth, either; she’s not letting her first anywhere near her sixth ever again. Her second could work, but ever since she put one of her old dolls in with him and he didn’t recover before he died, she’s suspected that her second doesn’t share energy as quickly as the other dolls, and her first may be exasperating, but he’s too fascinating and amusing for her to want him dead just yet. That leaves just her fourth and her fifth, and she turns to their adjacent cells to study them critically. Her fourth is a viable option, but as she catches sight of her fifth, glaring wrathfully out at her with hexed, black-crossed eyes, she knows she’s found her solution. Her fifth is fierce and strong, wild and nearly untamable, full of nothing but mindless passion and rage; her first will get no indulgent, sentimental coddling from _him_ for sure.

 

Nodding decisively, she walks over to her fifth’s cell, dragging her first along with her. Glancing behind her as the barred glass window to her fifth’s cell opens in response to her mental command, she sees that her first has left quite a lovely mess on the floor behind him, all thick, crimson smears and splatters. She’ll inevitably have to clean it up later, but it looks so nice that she decides to leave it for now.

 

Once the window’s opened enough, she tosses the injured, half-conscious doll into the corner opposite where her fifth is standing, still glaring at her as if he hopes his stare alone could vaporize her. More splatters of blood immediately darken the floor as her first’s ravaged body hits the concrete, the impact forcing one last breathless exclamation of pain from him.

 

Leaving the door to her fifth’s cage open, she turns and walks to the middle of the room to hang the little doll up so none of hers can try anything while she’s away. That taken care of, she strides briskly from the dungeon. Instead of turning right, which would take her to the stairs that lead into the higher stories of her edifice, she turns left into the maze of tunnels and rooms that extend in every direction under the building, like passageways under an anthill. She turns a few corners until she comes to an old storage room, where she keeps various tools, old construction materials, and a single small cupboard.

 

This cupboard is magically connected to her pantry up in her edifice, which she has enchanted to send any food items that have started to spoil. No point in giving mere _toys_ food fit for proper human beings, but there’s also no point in wasting spoiled food if her dolls could still get some use out of it to speed the healing process when she doesn’t really feel like waiting around longer for their bodies to repair themselves before she can play with them again.

 

She opens the cupboard door, but instead of some rotted vegetables, withered fruit, moldy bread, or soup that’s gone rancid… the cupboard is bare, aside from the few cups, bowls, and spoons she’d previously stashed inside. She blinks in confusion, closing the door and opening it again, just in case something got trapped in limbo on the way down. Still nothing.

 

She growls low in her throat when she realizes this means that she’ll have to cage her third with someone else after all, if she wants to play with him again anytime soon. Nerve damage is already slow to heal on the best of days, and without food or energy from another doll, it will take even longer. Not to mention that it will take her first longer to heal without food as well.

 

Well, on the brighter side, even if two more of her dolls will be unavailable due to helping the pair that is injured recuperate, she still has two relatively healthy ones left. If she isn’t too rough with them for the next couple days, her first and third should be recovered enough that they can go back to their own cells to finish healing, which would free up two more dolls to play with. It should work out. Still. This really throws a wrench in her plans for the rest of the week. Her good mood from earlier is rapidly fading.

 

Still confused and more than a little annoyed, she grabs two cups and begins to fill them with water from the huge, old barrel in the corner, which occasionally gets refilled from a rusty pipe leading down from the eaves when it rains, and then stops, studying the cups thoughtfully. She shrugs and focuses her magic on them, making the metal expand until they both are about a third larger than what they started out as. In the absence of food, her dolls may as well get more water, particularly her first; blood doesn’t replenish itself instantaneously.

 

With both cups filled, she makes her way back to the dolls’ cages and plunks one cup on the floor of her fifth’s cage before closing the door. In her absence, she notices that her first has instinctively tried to roll further onto his side to get the pressure off of his mutilated abdomen, but failed miserably, only succeeding in pushing his face harder against the cold, hard surface of the floor. The sight improves her mood just the slightest bit.

 

She then takes down the little doll and tucks it back under her arm before fetching her third, dragging him out from his cell before considering her options. Her second is by far her favorite to play with, so she’s loath to put her third in with him. However, her fourth makes the most enjoyable noises when he’s hurt, not even bothering to try to stifle them, while her sixth is tough and resilient, presenting a nice change of pace for her on the occasions that she wants a bit more of a challenge. Realistically speaking, if she were to only be stuck with two dolls to play with, she would probably have the most fun with those two as a pair, rather than one of them and her second.

 

Her second’s cell is just an alcove in the wall, with no bars or glass to keep him contained; she’s woven so many layers of binding magic around him that it confines him as securely as the other dolls’ corporeal cages imprison them. As she approaches him, lugging her third behind her, he simply glowers in her general direction from his seat on the floor, his mouth set in a grim line. He does not move or even flinch when she hurls her third inside the alcove near him in a careless heap, and she itches to get her hands on him again, to make that exquisite face contort in agony and coax melodic screams from his vocal cords, but she restrains herself. In due time.

 

Once the water is placed near the edge of her second’s cage as well and the little doll hung back up, she gives her playthings a final once over and stalks from the dungeon, intent on checking her pantry first thing. If something’s deliberately sabotaged her runes, there will be hell to pay.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Inked watches Her leave. Listens to the echoes of Her footsteps fade in the still air. Counts slowly to one hundred and fifty, just to make sure She’s really gone. The second he’s sure She’s not coming back anytime soon, he scrambles to Smallest’s side and kneels beside the other doll’s battered body, his fury from earlier gone, wiped away by the immense concern that he'd only barely been holding at bay. Closing his eyes, he focuses hard to remove the curse on his eyes and change his vision back to normal, instead of the stark world of light and dark, movement and magic where he and Her favorite usually reside. He opens them.

 

_Oh. Oh, that’s… a **lot** of blood..._

 

Even though Smallest has been in his cage for only a few minutes, a large puddle of red has already formed under his body, and the entire lower half of his sweater is drenched with the color. He doesn’t even seem to register Inked’s presence, simply lying where he’d been dumped in a filthy, quivering heap. Inked’s heart clenches painfully at the pitiful sight, and reaches out to gently cup Smallest’s pallid cheek in his hand. Smallest flinches away from his touch instinctively, giving a soft, plaintive whine.  

 

“Smallest, it’s me,” Inked tells him, trying to keep the pain the older doll’s fear causes him out of his voice. He knows it’s not directed at him, not really. He still hates the thought of any of the other dolls being afraid of him, though. “It’s Inked. She’s gone, Smallest, She’s gone. It’s okay now.” It’s not okay, not even remotely, but he doesn’t know what else to say. To his relief, Smallest’s eyes slowly open at his words, and this time, he doesn’t flinch when Inked tentatively cups his cheek again.

 

“I-Inked?” Smallest’s voice is faint and tremulous, as if he can’t quite believe this is real. Large, dark eyes begin to fill with fresh tears. “Is it really…?”

                                        

“Yeah, it’s me.” Inked assures him, tenderly wiping away the droplets that spill over and trickle down Smallest’s cheek with his thumb. “It’s me, Smallest. It’s okay, I’m here.”

 

Smallest laboriously pries one arm away from his bleeding middle and weakly reaches up to cover Inked’s hand with his own. His eyes fall closed and he lets out a long breath, as if a great weight has been lifted off his chest. Despite his exhaustion, despite the horrific pain he has to be in, a look of utter contentment spreads across the wounded doll’s face, the corners of his lips lifting in a small but delighted smile, the beauty of which temporarily takes Inked’s breath away.

 

The two dolls bask in each other’s presences for a brief, wonderful moment, savoring the first chance they’ve ever had to physically touch each other, the feel of another’s skin pressed against theirs. The moment is short-lived, however, because suddenly, Smallest’s breath hitches, and he starts to cough. Like before, his coughs soon turn to gags, his hand reflexively moving to cover his mouth, and as Inked watches worriedly, more red begins to seep out from between his fingers.

 

After what seems like an eternity, Smallest’s coughing subsides. His blood-spattered hand falls away from his mouth, exposing the thick lines of crimson still trickling sluggishly from his lips. He doesn’t even have time to catch his breath before his entire body gives a convulsive shudder and his eyes widen in shock and inexplicable, primal terror, hand moving seemingly of its own accord to his heart, clutching the threadbare fabric of his sweater so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Tears stream from his wide, unseeing eyes, a terrified, strangled sob tearing itself from his throat.

 

“What’s wrong, Smallest?” Inked asks anxiously, at a loss as to what could be causing this reaction in the other doll. They are all terrified of Her, though they do their best not to show it, but She’s gone, and Smallest still seems on the verge of outright panic.

 

“B-b-breaking,” Smallest gasps out, trying to curl in on himself even though he clearly hasn’t enough strength to do so. “I’m breaking-!”

 

“Yes, you’re broken,” Inked confirms, confused and concerned at how frightened Smallest seems to be at this fact. It isn’t like this is the first time he or the others have been badly hurt, nor will it be the last. Why is this different? “But you’ll be healed soon, I promise.”

 

Smallest just cries harder in response and shakes his head, reaching out a quavering hand to the larger doll in a wordless, desperate plea. Inked engulfs it in both of his and squeezes tightly, trying to impart what comfort he can while wracking his brain trying to think of what else he can do to help.

 

“Try checking his injury,” comes Tallest’s voice from across the room as if in response to his dilemma. Inked briefly glances up to see the younger doll gripping the bars of his cage tightly, watching the scene unfolding across from him with a look of open worry on his face. “Maybe it will help you understand how to help him.”

 

It’s as good a suggestion as any. Inked eases a hand under the injured doll’s head and maneuvers him onto his back, causing him to whimper again as his abused body is jostled agonizingly with the motion despite Inked’s best attempts to be careful. Inked then gently wrests Smallest’s other arm away from his middle, making sure to be careful of his poor, mangled left hand. Too weak to resist in any significant way, Smallest simply lies where he’s been placed, still crying quietly as Inked cautiously  peels back the soaked, tattered garment to access just how bad the injury is. He draws in an involuntary gasp of breath as the wound is revealed; a long, gaping, jagged tear running from the bottom of Smallest’s breastbone all the way down to his navel. Warm, rich scarlet pulses from the awful wound with every labored rise and fall of Smallest’s chest, trickling slowly in little rivulets down his sides. Then, of course, there are the stab wounds in his foot and hand, but those seem almost trivial compared with how bad the injury in his torso is.

 

Inked looks for a few seconds more, and then gently tugs down Smallest’s sweater to cover the wound back up, thinking hard. He knows from experience that the more blood the dolls lose, the more tired and lethargic they become. Inked doesn’t know what happens when they lose too much blood, but he suspects it can’t be good. Maybe that’s why Smallest is so scared. In that case, the best thing to do would be to keep as much of the blood inside as possible while he heals.

 

He helps Smallest arrange his arms over his abdomen again to help keep pressure on the wound, and turns him back onto his side so if he has another coughing fit, he won’t choke on his blood. However, when Inked turns away grab the large cup of water (he knows Smallest won’t be able to drink it right now, but it will be better to have it on hand the moment his insides heal enough to keep the liquid from spilling right back out), bloodstained fingers reach out and latch onto his in a vice-like grip. 

 

“Don’t let me leave, Inked,” Smallest begs pitifully, gazing up at him imploringly. “Don’t- don’t let me leave, don’t leave m-me, please, please don’t-”

 

“Oh, Smallest,” Inked murmurs sadly, answering tears springing to his own eyes at the other’s heart wrenching entreaty. “I’d never leave you, Smallest, I promise.” The cup of water briefly forgotten, Inked carefully crawls over Smallest’s prone body and nestles himself in the space between Smallest and the wall, laying on his side and curling protectively around the other doll’s smaller, slighter form. He slides his free arm under Smallest’s head as a makeshift pillow, and drapes the other around his middle, since Smallest flat out refuses to release Inked’s fingers and Inked hasn’t the heart to pry him off.

 

Smallest releases a relieved, shaky sigh as he registers the warm, comforting presence at his back and realizes Inked isn’t going to leave him. He presses as close as he physically can, soaking up the contact like a cloth soaks up blood. His grip shifts a little on Inked’s fingers so that the two dolls are properly holding hands, clinging to him with all the strength left in his drained body, as if he’s afraid Inked will suddenly disappear if he doesn’t bodily keep him there. The sudden clinginess is odd and something none of the other dolls have ever done when put in with him, but Inked finds he doesn’t mind it. On the contrary, it’s actually kind of… nice. He just wishes Smallest didn’t have to be in so much pain so he could properly enjoy it, too.  

 

As the two dolls lie huddled against each other, another painful coughing fit seizes Smallest, his entire frame convulsing with the force of it. Inked gives a soundless whimper and presses his cheek against the injured doll’s shoulder, wanting desperately for there to be more he could do for the other, some way he could end his suffering, but all he can do is hold him and wait for it all to be over. By the time the tortured coughing abates, Smallest is only barely conscious. His breathing comes in erratic, shallow, agonized sobs, and his exhausted body trembles faintly, feebly, as if it can scarcely summon enough strength to do even that much anymore. Thankfully, he falls unconscious soon after, most of the tension draining from him as oblivion claims him at last.

               

Inked lets out a long breath as he feels Smallest finally go limp and still against him, continuing to hold him awhile longer, just in case he starts to cough again or wakes back up. When the next few minutes prove to be uneventful, Inked cautiously sits up. He extricates his arm from where it’s currently being used as a pillow with great care, cups the side of Smallest’s head, and gently lowers it to the ground before turning his attention to the rest of the dungeon to check up on the other four dolls.

 

He first glances into Her favorite’s cell, where She had dumped Broken. While Inked’s been tending to Smallest, Her favorite hasn’t been idle, gathering the paralyzed doll close to rest comfortably against his side. Broken leans heavily against him, head pillowed on Her favorite’s shoulder, eyes closed but clutching his arm with his one good hand so tightly that Inked doubts Her favorite could pry him off even if he tried. Her favorite cradles Broken’s other limp, useless hand gently in his own, rubbing soothing circles into the back with his thumb. The smile on his face is small and soft, so different from his usual ones. They both look more content and peaceful than Inked’s seen in a long, long time, and his heart aches with the rush of fondness that fills it at the sight.

                                                                      

Directly across the room from him, Tallest sits on the floor right next to the barred opening of his cage, rolling small bits of bark from the rotting tree in the center of the alcove between the fingers of one hand. He perks up once he sees Inked sitting up and looking back at him.

 

“How’s Smallest?” he asks, shifting onto his knees, the pieces of bark forgotten.

 

“Finally sleeping,” Inked replies, trying to keep his voice down for the sake of said slumbering doll. “It’s probably going to take him a long time to recover from this one, though. It’s… it’s bad.”

 

“How bad?” comes Loud’s worried voice from the cell to Inked’s left. Inked feels regretful he can’t see into it from this angle. He gets inexplicably antsy when he can’t see all the other dolls at the same time. It can’t be helped, though; he doesn’t want to move Smallest more than absolutely necessary, not in his condition. “Does it have something to do with all that blood? There was so much...”

 

“I think so,” Inked responds, gingerly reaching across Smallest’s prone form for the cup of water. He has to get up on one knee to stretch enough, but he finally catches the cup with his fingertips and drags the vessel toward him, mindful to not spill a single drop of the liquid inside. “He still hasn’t stopped bleeding. He might have lost too much.”

 

“What does that mean? I hope it doesn’t mean anything bad,” Loud frets. “He’ll be okay, though, right? Eventually? I hope he’ll be okay. It was so scary, what She did to him with the doll.”

 

Inked hears the tremor in Loud’s words, and shudders slightly himself, remembering the way Her foul, foreboding magic had warped and twisted around the little toy until it had formed an almost corporeal shape, the dark, jagged, ugly mass of magic moving in tandem with Her movements to tear mercilessly into Smallest’s defenseless body when She impaled the effigy with the glass. Inked feels residual grief and rage bubble up in his chest at the memory, furiously wondering how _She_ might react to being on the receiving end of an attack like that, before forcefully wrenching his mind away from such trains of thought. He may hate Her with every fiber of his being, but he refuses to stoop to Her level, taking pleasure in the thought of someone else’s pain, no matter how much She may deserve it. He will never become like Her. Never, never, never.

 

“I didn’t even know She _could_ do something like that,” Tallest is saying. “Surely She would have done it by now if She could have?”

 

“It uses a lot of magic,” Her favorite speaks up for the first time, his deep voice quiet and subdued. “Difficult magic, too. Didn’t you see, Inked?”

 

“I saw,” Inked confirms, knowing that Her favorite won’t see his nod of affirmation. He glances at the little toy hanging from its neck in the center of the room, the large, bloodstained gash in its middle that mirrors Smallest’s wound still periodically leaking little bits of stuffing from time to time. It’s odd that She didn’t patch it yet. Maybe She wanted to send some sort of message with it to intimidate them, in which case, well, it’s working. At least for him.

 

Smallest whimpers quietly, instinctively gripping Inked’s hand tighter as his injuries desperately try to fix themselves while he sleeps. Grateful for a distraction from his unpleasant thoughts, Inked glances down at Smallest’s ashen, blood-streaked face, contorted in discomfort even while unconscious. After a moment of consideration, he wets the edge of his sleeve in the cup of water he’s placed above them, out of the way but close at hand. Gently, so as not to wake him, Inked meticulously wipes away the red staining Smallest’s lips and the lower half of his face, and then begins to lightly comb his tattooed fingers through the other doll’s dark hair, arranging the disheveled locks back into some semblance of order. An overwhelming feeling of affection and protectiveness seizes him as the stress lines in Smallest’s brow smooth out at the tender ministrations, his labored, raspy breathing easing slightly as he sinks deeper into slumber.

 

Smallest has always seemed so confident and strong to Inked, despite his smaller stature in comparison to the other dolls. Attentive and energetic and eternally, fearlessly loving, always focused on the others and their well-being before sparing any thought for himself. But now, as he lies so pale and still and silent in a puddle of his own blood… he just seems so frail. So _vulnerable_. As if a single touch could shatter him completely. And the longer Inked looks at the poor, broken doll, the more that powerful urge to _protect_ intensifies. He lies back down, cradling Smallest’s head on his arm once again, and curls defensively around him, instinctively trying to shield the other with his own body while he heals.

                                   

Once Smallest’s back is pressed as close to his chest as it can possibly get, Inked closes his eyes and buries his nose in the other doll’s soft hair, breathing in deeply and concentrating hard. As he does so, he allows the hex on his eyes to return, knowing that his sense of smell is enhanced when the majority of his sight is gone. Underneath the familiar, acrid, bitter scents of anxiety and agony still lingering on Smallest’s skin, Inked smells old, musty, linen cloth, undercut with a soothing, honeyed warmth, which never quite crosses the line into becoming cloying because of an additional, refreshing note of something airy and effervescent. The blend of scents is so uniquely, perfectly _Smallest_ that the second Inked catches a whiff of it, a piece he didn’t even consciously know was missing quietly slots itself into place within his mind.

 

From the very first moment Loud was dumped into his cell, all that time ago, the one thing he instantly picked up on, the thing that completely shattered the shackles She’d placed on his mind, was how… _different_ … the other smelled. He’d never encountered anything like Loud’s scent before, rust and mold from the old tubs and pipes piled up in the back of his cell combined with an underlying hint of something bright, clear, and energizing. It had been like a splash of cold water to the face after previously knowing nothing but Her overpowering, saccharine, sickly-sweet scent that only barely hides the putrid, foul stench of decay that emanates from Her like invisible plumes of fetid smoke, and from then on, Inked has never been able to smell Her without some small part of him wanting to vomit.

 

Inked has been caged with each of the other dolls at least once now, either to heal or be healed, and they all smell so distinctive, so very _real_ , in contrast with Her fake, lifeless scent, that he can’t get enough of it, of them.

 

In contrast to Loud’s metallic, musty, bracing odor, Her favorite smells clean, almost too much so, like his natural scent has been forcibly stripped away, but a trace of a faint, sharp sweetness still manages to break through that carefully maintained sterility.

 

Tallest smells earthy, of dirt and moss and bark; mellow, musky, with just a hint of crisp tartness.

 

Broken smells of copper combined with the biting tang of hot metal from the piles of smashed and gutted electronics heaped in random places in his cage, with a smoky, spicy undertone.

 

Sometimes the memory of their presence, their touch, is so far away, and Inked feels so alone and isolated behind the smooth, unbroken glass that locks him away from the other dolls that he can barely stand it. But the second he remembers their scents, it always makes the solitude a little easier to bear. They’re so ingrained in his mind that he knows with absolute certainty that he would still instantly be able to recognize the others anywhere, even if every single one his other senses were taken away. He’d always wanted to know what Smallest’s scent was like, too, so he could hold him in his heart the same way he holds the others, but She’s never before caged him with anyone, not that Inked can remember.  Now that She has, he finally feels _complete_ in a way he never has before.

 

He can hear Loud and Tallest trading banter back and forth outside. He knows he could, if he opened his eyes, see Broken and Her favorite huddled together in Her favorite’s cell. Smallest is a warm, solid weight against his front, and Inked feels the faint, tingling flow of energy between their bodies, helping the wounded doll to mend as fast as possible from his traumatic ordeal. Inked sighs, long and contentedly, keeping his nose buried in Smallest’s comforting, sweet scent, and he finally allows himself to relax for the first time in a long while.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ASTRO makes their first appearance next chapter! Stay tuned, folks. :D


	2. Real Out of Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MV's referenced: Kard's "Trust Me"; IU's "Good Day"; Miwoo's "Broken Doll"; Astro's "Baby" and "Breathless

The witch regards the large, glass jar in her hands, where a family of terrified mice cowers, huddled at the side furthest away from her.  It’s ironic that these tiny little thieves could be responsible for absolutely ruining the complicated spell she’d placed on her pantry, simply by their very presence. One managed to escape her and still remains at large, but she’ll find it. Oh, she will _find_ it. In the meantime, she’s already come up with a few possible uses for her little unwelcome houseguests that she’s quite eager to try out. First things first, though.

 

After depositing the mice in one of her workrooms, she returns to her pantry to repair the runes the mice’s chewing and messes have ruined. But, as she works, she finds that she just can’t keep her mind on the task at hand. It keeps wandering to the mice. Namely, the possibility of constructing another doll from one of them.

 

As intriguing as this idea is, though, she discards it after only a moment or two of consideration; she’s perfectly content with the six dolls she has now, thank you. But still, that gets her thinking. If she _were_ to get bored of them eventually and decide to make some new ones… that would still raise the question of how in the name of all that is unholy her current set somehow developed self-sufficiency all on their own. Because she can’t for the life of her figure it out. She had been so sure that they would be loyal to her forever, with how she had constructed their psyches. So what happened? How did their brains rewire themselves so drastically? She’s scoured her personal library and all the information she’s accumulated on the subject already, and none of her books say anything about constructs developing their own wills if they were specifically designed to be subservient. It’s… a bit concerning. Again, not that she can’t handle her dolls, of course, she has everything perfectly under control, but… still. It would be nice to know just how this happened. For her own peace of mind.

 

She’s previously been able to shove this conundrum to the back of her mind and put it into her mental “deal with later” box, given she’s always had much more pressing things to occupy her time and attention. But now… seized with a sudden impulse, she gets to her feet and leaves her pantry. She can finish repairing it later. She goes to her bedroom and rummages around in her closet for a bit before pulling a satchel out of a chest. After some consideration, she slips a pouch full of gold and silver coins into one of its pockets. She’s never ventured into any of the settlements populating this piecemeal world, but precious metal as currency is a constant throughout most dimensions, so she should be pretty well covered.

 

She already feels a bit drained from the stunt she pulled with the little cursed doll earlier, but she should have enough energy left to pull off one last spell for today. Tossing the satchel on a chair, she sits on the edge of her lavish, four-poster bed, closes her eyes, and concentrates, mustering her remaining magic to a point right in the center of her forehead. More. Tighter. Closer. More. Focus. Focus. _Focus_ …

 

When she finally opens her eyes an indeterminate amount of time later, she is staring at herself sitting on the bed, eyes still closed. She looks down to examine herself, making sure her magic doppelganger body is holding together well enough before taking up the satchel and slinging the strap over one shoulder.

 

She roots around in her vanity drawer for a moment before withdrawing a black iron skeleton key. Closing the door to her bedroom, she inserts the key into the lock, and when she opens it, she’s looking out at a dark alleyway. Taking a deep breath, she steps through, feeling the strong tug of her edifice pulling on her as she does so. However, when it becomes clear she’s arrived safely in the alley, she lets out a slightly relieved sigh. It’s been quite a long time since she’s attempted this spell, and she wasn’t quite sure it would work. Good to know the hold her edifice has on her still doesn’t extend as much to her magic. She can still feel an insistent pull in the back of her mind, like an elastic band pulled taut, trying to yank her back into her original body, but it’s not strong enough to do it, not quite yet. She’s still incredibly miffed that this is the only way she can leave her home now in spite of everything she’s tried, but until she finds some way to fully break free, this is the best solution she’s been able to come up with. Hopefully she’ll be able to find what she needs before the spell peters out.

 

With that in mind, she emerges from the alleyway into a busy street, where vendors and shops line the road and people bustle to and fro on their own various errands. She already feels the hair on the back on her neck prickle with being in this close a proximity to so many magic users, and quickly draws as much of her magic into her doppelganger as possible, instead of letting it billow, ebb, and flow around her like she usually does. People tend to get… _irrational_ … when they sense the type of magic she uses. Best to keep a low profile in such an unknown environment.

 

“You,” she catches a passing young woman by the arm. “Point me to the nearest bookstore, and be quick about it.”

 

“U-um…” the girl stammers in confusion, wincing at the tight grip of the witch’s fingers. “Well, the Hidden Card bookstore is just a couple blocks that way, but-”

 

“That’ll do.” She lets go of the girl and strides briskly off in the direction she’d been pointing.

 

Sure enough, after a few minutes of walking, a small, brick and mortar establishment with the sign “Hidden Card Bookstore” hung above the door comes into view, and she immediately makes a beeline for it. A little bell jingles merrily above her as she opens the door, and she shoots a disgusted glance up at it before arranging her face back into a more disinterested expression. The store is relatively small, but nearly every available nook and cranny is jam packed with books of all shapes and sizes. The lighting is pleasantly dim, with aromatic candles placed here and there on tables and windowsills to give the room what is likely meant to be a “cozy” atmosphere. The witch would have preferred just the dim lighting, honestly. Faint traces of warm-cool magic waft through the bookshelves, not enough to be overpowering, just to confirm that this establishment belongs to at least a couple people who have some magic ability.

 

“Ah, hello there!” a deep, jovial voice calls out, and she turns to see a very tall man unfold himself from here he’d been sitting behind the front desk. “Welcome to the Hidden Card bookstore. Name’s Matthew. How can I help you today?”

 

“I want to see the latest publications available on the subject of magical constructs,” she says brusquely.

 

“If you’re looking for books on magic theory, that’d be on the second floor,” Matthew replies easily. “I’d be happy to-”

 

A loud crash cuts off whatever he’d be about to say, and the witch can’t keep herself from starting slightly. Matthew simply rolls his eyes and massages his forehead with one hand before raising his voice and calling deeper into the bookstore, “Somin, please tell me that wasn’t you. Not while I’m talking to a potential client.”

 

When no answer is forthcoming, Matthew sighs heavily. “Hey, Tae?” A shorter, dark-haired man pokes his head out from behind a bookshelf and quirks an eyebrow at him. “Could you show the lady upstairs to the nonfiction section on magic theory? It looks like I’m going to need to dig Somin out from under a pile of books again.”  

 

As the man nods and wanders over, Matthew turns back to the witch, grinning apologetically. “Sorry about that. Gotta go rescue my colleague before she suffocates or accidentally burns the bookstore down. Being the only person here with water magic gets kind of tiring when you’re surrounded by paper, fire, fire-users, and chroma-illusios all day and no one thought to stock a fire extinguisher before we packed up and moved. So! Taehyung will lead you upstairs, and Jiwoo can help with suggestions if you aren’t sure what exactly you’re looking for. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Somin!” he calls, walking with long strides toward the back of the establishment, “Girl, speak to me! I need to know if I just inherited a new set of stainless steel pans or not!”

 

 “This way, ma’am,” Taehyung says, over the sound of muffled yelling from the back of the store. He leads her up a flight of narrow stairs and up onto the second floor and gestures to the back of the room. “Magic theory is the last five shelves on the left side.” 

 

As they approach, a young blonde woman shelving a boxful of books comes into view.

 

“Hey, Jiwoo,” Taehyung greets as they get closer. “The lady here is looking for some books on… constructs, was it?”

 

 “ _Magical_ constructs,” she corrects curtly. The last thing she needs is for these imbeciles to hand her a book on theoretical philosophy or some such nonsense and waste even more of her valuable time.

 

“Well then.” Jiwoo straightens up and dusts off her brown skirt, reaching onto a shelf. “ _The Illusion of Life_ by Yen Sid and Michael Maus is a classic on the topic, as is-”

 

“Yes, yes, I’ve read _The Illusion of Life_ and its contemporaries multiple times,” the witch cuts her off impatiently. “What I’m looking for is publications concerning any _recent_ advancements in the field. Do you have any of those, or will I need to take my business elsewhere?”

 

Jiwoo pauses, purses her lips tightly, but nods and replaces the book she’d started to pull off the shelf. “My apologies. I’ll try to see what I can find for you.” She bustles around, pulls a few books off the shelves, puts some of them back and finally ends up returning with a pile of about half a dozen tomes.

 

“These are all the books we currently carry that have been published in the last five years or so on artificial humans,” she explains. She reaches for the first book and hands it over. “Mariam Shelley’s _Your First Magical Construct,_ Himoru Ryohgo’s _Origami Souls_ , Dr. Loew Meyrink’s _Feet of Clay_ , and Sarah Keller’s _A Treatise on the Modern Homunculus_ _Vol. I and II_ are theory books and instructional manuals. Dr. Brent Soong’s _The_ _Measure of a Man_ and Marvin Adams’ _The Function and Treatment of_ _Synthetic Sentient Sorceries in Modern Societies_ are more… social commentary pieces on the subject, you might say.”

 

“I’m not interested in social commentary,” the witch says dismissively, carelessly shoving the last two books at a startled Taehyung, who nearly drops them.

 

“You seem awfully interested in constructs, though,” he observes, fumbling the books before finally getting ahold of them. “Looking to create a little pet for yourself or something? I’ve got a little fireplace sprite at home myself. Had her since I was 12.”

 

She smiles tightly. “Or something.”

 

To forestall any further questioning or pathetic attempts at small talk, she grabs the book on the top of the stack, flips it open to a random page in the opening chapter, and begins to skim the first couple paragraphs:

 

_One of the fundamental requirements to make any sort of autonomous, artificial creation is a power source to construct the rest of the facsimile around. For robots and androids, this power source usually comes in the form of batteries or a power core, driven most commonly by electric, magnetic, solar, or nuclear energy. However, for artificial beings constructed out of magic, the source is much more primal: quintessence, the life energy animating all living beings. Nearly all magical constructs, no matter how rudimentary, require some amount of quintessence to operate, unless the creator’s goal is to make nothing more than what amounts to an inanimate figurine made of magic. The more quintessence used in the construct’s creation, the hardier, more durable, and more capable of surviving independently from their creator’s magic it becomes. Alternatively, the smaller the amount used, the more fragile and reliant the construct. The difference in composition can be compared to the difference between a wooden tankard and a glass bottle; both serve the same purpose – holding liquid – but the overall durability of both objects is vastly disparate._

_Harvesting quintessence for personal use should be approached with much caution, however. While it is tempting to obtain it from animals – birds, frogs, rats, etc. – or a willing volunteer, it is easy to lose oneself in the heat of the moment and drain every last drop from the subject’s body, resulting in instant death. Outright killing another living being to make a construct is considered highly taboo and unethical in most cultures, and you are likely to run afoul of your local law enforcement if you attempt this. Most magic users nowadays prefer to use fragments of their own life force to make their constructs, though this is not without its own risks, and can be hazardous to one’s health if attempted recklessly. It is up to you how you choose to proceed in this area, though I would advise you to give it much consideration before committing to any one course of action, and, of course, to make sure you are following any existing laws concerning this subject in your area._

 

She slams the book shut, causing both employees to jump. “Taboo and highly unethical” indeed, _peh_. Spoken like a true conformist. Still, she has to reluctantly admit that the author – spineless and unadventurous though they may be – does seem to have their basic theory down well enough. Perhaps there could be something new here after all. Besides, she did come all this way and use all this magic, she might as well have something to show for it.

 

“I’ve decided,” she announces. “I’ll take all four of these books. How much are you asking for them?”

 

Taehyung names a price, and she agrees after confirming that the establishment accepts gold coins as currency. She follows him downstairs to pay, feeling Jiwoo’s suspicious eyes boring holes into the back of her skull the entire way. She is sorely, sorely tempted to turn right back around and put the whelp in her place, but ultimately decides it’s not worth it.

 

As she’s paying for the books downstairs, Matthew and a disheveled looking brunette woman around the same age as Jiwoo pass them, carrying an armful of books each. Matthew calls a cheerful farewell on his way up the stairs, and the girl gives a sheepish grin and half bow as she follows him up. The witch wordlessly rolls her eyes and returns Taehyung’s pleasant “Thank you, come again,” with a curt grunt before shoving the books in her satchel and sweeping out the door without  so much as a backward glance.

 

Once back on the busy street, she glances around, trying to find a secluded door she can go back through to return to her edifice as fast as possible, when she realizes that since she’s out already… she might as well look around for a bit. In a place so saturated with magic, there are bound to be some constructs around here that she can observe.

 

So she wanders around aimlessly for a bit, taking in the sights and absolutely despising most of them. Everything is so bright and cheerful and busy that it makes her sick. But, she perseveres, keeping her eyes and magical sixth sense peeled in case she spies any constructs. And sure enough, spy them she does. The vast majority pop up here and there in the windows of shops, used as mannequins or oddities to advertise various wares, and most of them are rather basic and rudimentary, likely having little to no individual consciousness whatsoever. She does, however, catch glimpses of some that are used for other purposes, such as a girl holding a colorful macaw on her wrist that rattles off the temperature, time, and location of the nearest shoe store in quick succession, or a ostentatiously-dressed man with a handlebar mustache being closely trailed by a blank-faced, freckled woman with short, red, corkscrew curls, who is balancing an outrageous number of parcels and bags in her arms with unnatural, effortless ease.

 

She finally passes through a section of the city next to a park that seems to be dedicated to eateries, and passes by a small, cheerful-looking edifice that the nauseatingly vivid neon sign above the door says is called “D.Store.” A tall, extremely handsome young man is sweeping the porch, and she stops walking and simply stares. She can tell he’s a construct, alright, but a construct fabricated around… a bottle of soda, of all things? What kind of quack would even think to-?

 

“Miss?” The construct has stopped sweeping and makes eye contact with her, smiling warmly. “Would you like to come in, miss? We’re open.” He gestures at the rainbow sign on the door with the word “Open” written on it in blocky black script.

 

The magic emanating from the small store is so overwhelmingly cheerful and bright that it’s enough to set her teeth on edge and make her want to tear the whole thing apart brick by brick, set it on fire, and salt the ashes, but it has been an incredibly long time since she has seen a magical construct with a composition this unique. She wants to see more. So against her better judgment, she allows the beaming youth to lead her into the building.

 

More constructs work inside, six altogether, counting the one that had been sweeping the porch. They each light up as they catch sight of her and smile welcomingly, seeming overjoyed that they have a customer. Once she’s led to a seat, a shorter boy with a wide, blindingly white smile brings her a menu and places it in front of her, cracking a few jokes (JOKES!) before leaving to tend to the record player. She watches him go, eyes narrowed. The nerve of him, a mere construct, joking with her as if she were his equal! She ought to-

 

She catches the small one behind the counter stocked with multicolored sodas watching her intently, his easygoing, tranquil gaze belaying an intense vigilance that tells her that it will be very hard to do anything without him noticing. With effort, she schools her face into a more neutral expression and hides behind her menu, pretending to study it while surreptitiously observing the six constructs, trying to get a feel for the magic holding them together.

 

The first thing she notices is that they all seem so disgustingly _happy_. Their creator must coddle them within an inch of their lives. Honestly, it’s disgraceful. Still… she can’t help but begrudgingly admire the mad genius behind the craftsmanship that went into them, if nothing else. They shouldn’t be this stable (bottles of soda _indeed,_ good heavens), especially with the way it seems they were constructed, like their creator cobbled them together from the magical equivalent of toothpicks, rubber bands, and hot glue. And yet… it somehow _works_.

 

Even though she can tell they’re not nearly as durable as her own dolls, they’re not only stable, they’re actually fully autonomous, if the way the shorter one carting boxes of soda in and the tall one arranging the bottles in the refrigerators are lightly bickering back and forth with each other, giggling all the while, is any indication. It was on purpose, too, since they’ve been given full run of the store and they aren’t restrained, enchanted, or hexed in any way that she can tell, though for what reason, she can’t fathom. Why would someone _purposefully_ create constructs with complete free will? Doesn’t that defeat the entire purpose in the first place? Is this some sort of experiment?

 

The tall, skinny one with pale hair over by the nearest wall to her left fluffs a bouquet of flowers and plunks them into a vase of water, drawing her attention. She studies him closely. Not only are they stable, not only are they autonomous, they’re also, she begrudgingly has to admit, quite beautiful. Not as much as her dolls, of course; nothing can be as beautiful as her dolls, she thinks, with no small amount of pride. But still, their creator has quite an eye for aesthetics. It’s such a pity their beauty is wasted on this dinky little shop, on a creator who obviously doesn’t properly… _appreciate_ them. Oh, and that was exactly the wrong thought to have, wasn’t it, she reflects unrepentantly, an involuntary shiver running down her spine as her gaze rapidly flicks from one construct to another.

 

After studying them all closely for a few minutes, the short, sturdy one leaves through a backdoor with a large stack of crates. The loud, jokey one is preoccupied with the record player, the one organizing bottles in the refrigerators is trying to fix a broken shelf, the watchful one behind the counter has his back turned to work on the soda fountain, and the exceptionally handsome one has left to finish sweeping outside. On impulse, she stands and gracefully covers the few steps over to the table stacked with bouquets and flower arrangements where the tallest construct is busily trimming the stems off a handful of carnations. He grins amiably at her approach, setting his pair of garden scissors on the table.

 

“Oh, hello, miss! Are you ready to order? Should I get MJ for you? I could take it for you if you want, though; I’m just as good at taking orders as he is. I’m Sanha, by the way! Nice to meet you!” 

 

They have names. Of course. The sentimental fool that gave them autonomy in the first place would of course give their toys _names_. They probably think they’re _people_ at this rate. Ugh. Best to play along with the thing’s delusions for now, though, no point in causing an unnecessary scene.

 

“Not yet,” she replies as pleasantly as she can manage. “There are so many colors to choose from that I can’t quite decide.”

 

The construct – Sanha – leans down to murmur conspiratorially in her ear. “If you want my opinion, the yellow one is the best. I’d get that one, if I were you.”

 

“Ah, so that must be what you used to be, then,” she ponders aloud, ever-so-slightly amused despite herself.

 

“Of course! Isn’t it obvious?” he says cheekily, holding his hands up to frame his face in what he probably thinks is a “cute” pose. It takes every bit of willpower she possesses to not slap that pretty, infuriating grin right off him. “Wait…” He seems to be thinking, before his face lights up with realization. “Wait, if you can tell I used to be yellow soda, that must mean you have magic!”

 

She smiles tightly. “You could say that.”

 

“That’s so cool! Could you show me? Please?” He leans down eagerly, his eyes sparkling.

 

It’s all she can do to not laugh in his face. He _wants_ her to show him her magic? He has no idea what kind of request he just made. But she will be happy to oblige him. More than happy.

 

She daintily removes a pink rose from one of the bouquets and holds it loosely in front of her, where the construct can easily see it. As he watches, black veins of rot spread from where her fingers grasp the stem all throughout the flower’s capillaries, and the bright, soft petals darken and wither, a foul stench beginning to emanate from the decaying plant. A simple spell, but a satisfyingly dramatic one, if she does say so herself.

 

Sanha is staring at the dead, rotted flower in confusion and dismay, nose wrinkled slightly from the smell. “But… why would you…?”

 

“Because I can,” she replies, and something in her voice makes his eyes immediately snap back up to her face, and what he sees there startles him so much he takes an involuntary step back. She immediately follows, pressing into his personal space bubble and making him take another step back, then another, and another, until his back is pressed flat against the wall. Along the way, she stealthily plucks the pair of scissors off the table. “Because I like it.”

 

“Uh… um. M-miss? What are you-?” She grabs his wrist in an iron grip, jerks it up, and pins it to the wall beside his head, and a delicious thrill goes through her at the startled sound he makes. A spark of blank fear ignites in his large, guileless eyes as he gazes down into her dark, hungry ones, and she can’t contain a delighted giggle. She wants nothing more at this exact moment than to see those eyes fill with true terror, to overflow with tears, for the brightness in them to dull as they glaze over with pain. He’s not her doll, he doesn’t belong to her, she probably shouldn’t be doing this, but oh, it’s so nice to just pretend for a moment. She _wants_ this. She _needs_ it.

 

“I like the smell. The color. The… control.” With the hand holding the scissors, she reaches up to delicately trace the side of the construct’s face with her sharp fingernails, pressing one nail deep into the flesh under his eye. Her smirk widens at his involuntary intake of breath.

 

Ah, how fun it would be to plunge these scissors deep into his unblemished, milk-white skin over and over and paint beautiful, ephemeral works of art with his blood. How she would love to hear all the wonderful sounds he would make when his bird-thin bones snap like brittle twigs. He’s so scrawny that she doubts she would even need her little doll to do it. Her fingers tighten around his wrist reflexively at the thought, making his wrist bones creak and drawing a deliciously pained whimper from him, but that’s not nearly enough, no, no. She wants to make him _scream_ , make him _bleed,_ to break him, _break_ him, BREAK HIM-

 

“What’s going on here?” The witch’s head snaps to the side to see a small girl standing close by, the wide, zany grin plastered firmly on her face belaying the hidden glint of steel in her eyes. She’s clad in a rumpled, color-stained labcoat over a pair of overalls, hair done up in two messy braids, a pair of lab safety goggles around her neck, and a hissing, furious white duck with a purple bow tied around its neck held tightly in her arms. The witch can almost taste the magic boiling around her in invisible rainbow swirls, effervescent and cloyingly saccharine. The witch knows in an instant that’s she’s clearly found the establishment’s owner and by association, the soda constructs’ creator. The rest of said constructs have stopped whatever they were previously doing and are looking in their directions with varying expressions of confusion, concern, and, in the case of at least one, anger.

 

With immense effort and reluctance, the witch quashes her rising bloodlust and steps back from Sanha, smiling beatifically at the girl. “Ah. I was just admiring your construct here. He’s quite… unconventional.”

 

“Yeah, well, this is kind of an unconventional place, if you haven’t noticed,” the girl replies, her grin unwavering. “Jinjin, be a dear and take your brothers back to the lab. Aroha and I are testing out a new formula, and we need your opinion on it.” The smallest construct behind the counter, presumably Jinjin, nods obediently as the duck quacks loudly, as if to accentuate her words. The witch is seized with the intense desire to wring its spindly neck, and her hand tightens on Sanha's wrist again.

 

“All of us?” MJ speaks up, looking confused. “But shouldn’t someone stay to watch the- HRK!“ The one that had been stocking the refrigerators elbows him sharply in the gut.

 

“We’re going, sis, we’re going.” He starts herding the smaller construct in the direction of the exit, catching the tall, handsome one, still holding his broom, by the elbow and pulling him along as well. The witch doesn’t miss the way he keeps his body in between them and her the entire time.

 

Meanwhile, Jinjin approaches boldly and tugs a thoroughly shaken Sanha away from where his assailant still has him pinned against the wall. When she doesn’t immediately release her bruising grip around his wrist, the duck gives a sharp hiss, and the boiling quagmire of fizzy magic around the girl flares. With a minute flinch, the witch releases the tall construct, and Jinjin wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him in close in a repulsive display of sentimentality as he leads him away.

 

The girl stops them as they pass, and reaches up, up, up to tenderly cradle the side of Sanha’s face for a moment, lightly running her thumb over the spot where the witch’s fingernail dug into his skin and left an angry red bruise. Her smile goes soft and sad for a brief moment, before she gives his cheek a gentle pat and passes the duck over to the much taller figure for him to hold.

 

“Here, Aroha will show you which batch I want you to test for me. Take her up with you, and I’ll be up in a bit, okay?” Sanha, still looking pale and shell-shocked, tries to smile back without much success (the witch feels a curl of cruel satisfaction twist in her belly) and takes the duck, which immediately starts nuzzling its head against his chest and honking softly in comfort, with one last parting hiss in the witch’s general direction as the constructs leave. The short delivery boy gives his creator and the strange customer one last worried look before bringing up the rear behind his five comrades.

 

“Bottles of soda? Really?” the witch says amusedly once the door shuts behind the constructs. “That’s rather tacky, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“I dunno, I happen to find there’s a certain charm in tacky,” the short girl replies, turning back to the witch, her arms folded in front of her. The eccentric grin is back in full force, but by the way her magic swells and billows around her, the witch can tell she’s angry. _Incredibly_ angry. “You seemed to think so, too.” She glances pointedly at the scissors the witch is still holding in one hand, and then at the withered remains of the rose littering the floorboards.

 

“Ah, well.” The witch carefully places the tool back on the table. “They are quite… fascinating, I must admit. Your craftsmanship is admirable, if amateurish, and I just wanted to get a better look at it, that’s all.”

 

The girl huffs a short laugh, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling momentarily before focusing back on the witch. “Alright. Let me put this in a way someone like you-” She briefly glances at the decayed rose, her nose wrinkling in disgust the same way Sanha’s did, “-can understand.”

 

She steps closer to the witch, completely unafraid. Her smile grows even wider, if that was possible, and takes on a decidedly wild, slightly unhinged edge. “If I _ever_ see or sense you within a 30 foot radius of this establishment or _any_ of my boys _ever again_ , I will turn you into a root beer float, and _flush you down the toilet_.” The latent magic permeating every brick and nail in the store suddenly bubbles to life, and the witch abruptly remembers why she usually loathes stepping foot into buildings owned by other magic users. Here, on her home turf, with her magic saturating the very air around them, this girl could easily give the witch a run for her money if this confrontation turned violent.

 

“Well, aren’t you just adorable,” the witch smiles patronizingly, her own foul magic rallying around her in a show of strength even as she begins to edge toward the door. As much as it pains her to back down from such a blatant challenge to her obvious superiority and to leave this horrific eyesore on the environment in one piece, she has not lived as long as she has by being reckless. Her power is significantly diminished in this form, and if it is destroyed, she will have no way to retrieve the books she purchased.

 

“So I’ve been told.” The girl’s smile is shattered stained glass, bright and razor sharp. She then puts a hand to her chin in a show of exaggerated shock. “Oh! How silly of me, I just remembered you didn’t get the chance to buy anything. Here, take this.” She claps her hands twice. On the second clap, a brilliant ball of multicolored lightning ignites in her palms. “It’s on the house.”

 

The witch’s eyes widen as she realizes there’s no way she’d be able to defend herself against an attack that powerful, not in this body, and she unceremoniously scrambles for the door. Just as her hand closes around the handle, she tastes ozone and caramelized sugar, and the world becomes bright bright bright _too bright_ before dissolving into nothingness.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ding dong, the witch is dead! 8D ~~Ok, bitty spoiler, no she's unfortunately not, but I had to make the reference, man, I had to.~~
> 
> More Astro next chapter, and finally some long-awaited fluff. Also, if you caught all the references I made in the KARD section of this chapter, you deserve some kind of award, seriously.


	3. Found My Color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MV's referenced: Astro's "Baby" and "Breathless"; B1A4's "Sweet Girl" and "Beautiful Target"; Girls' Generation's "Gee"

The dark witch’s fabricated body melts into a shower of black dust, the bag slung over her shoulder falling to the ground with a heavy, satisfying _thump_. Yoojung dusts rainbow sparkles off her hands and sticks her tongue out at the bag before wandering over to inspect it. She prods it with her foot, feeling a heavy weight shift inside. Gingerly, she nudges one of the objects out of the bag, ready to spring into action if it turns out to be dangerous in any way. The object turns out to be a book. A cold chill snakes through her stomach at the title: _Your First Magical Construct._ Digging through the rest of the bag reveals three more books, each having to do with constructs, and the chill in her gut grows.

 

The memory of the foul, rotten burst of magic she’d sensed just a few minutes ago, the one that had sent her instantly scrambling from her workshop in a state of barely-contained panic ( _it came from the storefront, the storefront where her boys worked, her boys, **her boys** , no no **no** , please **no**_ ), comes back to her, and she shudders, glancing at the withered rose still lying forlornly on the ground. She then turns back to the satchel of theory books, her brilliant, chaotic mind rapidly fitting the puzzle pieces together, and she frowns. She knows for a fact that the dark witch isn’t dead; if a fabricated body is destroyed, the mind controlling it simply snaps back to the original body, no worse for the wear. So what if she tries something like this again? What if she goes after someone _else’s_ constructs next time? Someone that powerful, able to sustain an astral doppelganger while perfectly concealing every trace of the dark magic that makes it up so as not to arouse suspicion… there’s no telling what a person like that could be capable of. She remembers the sinister, hungry look on the woman’s face as she’d pinned Sanha to the wall, and shudders again. This… could be a problem. A _big_ problem. One she probably won’t be able to handle by herself. But, first things first.

 

She rummages around behind the counter of the soda fountain for one of the bags used for packaging bottles, and gingerly deposits the dead rose in the bag with her thumb and forefinger, making disgusted, exaggerated gagging noises the entire time. She places the bag containing the rotted flower and the satchel containing the books on the bench nearest the door. She then pauses, considers, goes outside, and places them in the basket of Rocky’s delivery bike around the outside of the store instead. That taken care of, she heads back inside and makes her way to her laboratory. The chatter of subdued voices behind the door dies down as soon as she enters, all heads swiveling to look in her direction.

 

“So! How was the soda?” she asks cheerfully, crossing the room to open a storage locker, not missing the looks of varying relief on her constructs’ faces when they see she’s returned safe and sound. “Be honest, now.”

 

“Awesome as usual,” MJ says, beaming. “You should keep it.”

 

“I think it’s a bit too sweet,” Eunwoo retorts. “I think you should add a bit less sugar. Though the bubble gum flavor is… certainly unique.”

 

“Thank you! Thought so myself,” she replies, rummaging through the locker’s shelves, tossing out a raincoat and two extra pairs of safety goggles in the heat of her search.

 

The others chime in with their own opinions. Half of them like it, and half of them don’t. She makes a mental note to shelve this particular formula for now. Now, where did she- “Aha!” she crows in triumph, pulling out her first aid kit. “I knew it!” She turns to where Aroha is nestled comfortably in the crook of Sanha’s arm and points, “I told you I’d remember where I put it this time! You owe me five feathers!”

 

“You only remembered where you put it because _I_ suggested the location,” the duck replies primly, ruffling her wings. “My feathers are staying right where they are, thank you very much.”

 

“Spoilsport,” Yoojung pouts, hugging the kit to her chest and wandering over to where Sanha stands, hemmed in by Jinjin on one side and Rocky on the other.

 

“Come on, lemon meringue,” she says, setting the first aid kit on the counter by the sink and pulling up a stool with her foot. “Let me take a look at those bruises, okay? Just to make sure nothing’s hurt too bad.”

 

“Go on, San,” Jinjin encourages, giving the taller boy’s hand a light squeeze while Rocky rubs his shoulder soothingly and Aroha quacks and nuzzles her head against his side.

 

Sanha wordlessly takes a seat in on the stool and sets Aroha on his lap. Yoojung opens the first aid kit and digs around inside, the rest of the constructs gathering around curiously to watch. She ostensibly keeps it around just as a precaution, since she can sometimes get a little… carried away with her experiments (Aroha will never let her live down the time she exploded five beakers simultaneously, the insufferable bird) and she can’t heal worth a flip, but it’s also handy to have around just in case her boys get themselves into scrapes. Thankfully, due to the extra bit of silica in their makeup, their skin is tougher than the average human’s. So even though they’re just as rowdy and accident prone as any normal group of teenage boys, Yoojung’s only had reason to use the first aid kit on a scant few occasions.

 

Yoojung finally locates the jar of bruise cream and slathers some onto Sanha’s cheek, smiling fondly at the face he makes at its cold sliminess. She then tells him to roll up his sleeve so she can take a look at his wrist. Four dark, swollen bands twist their way around the appendage, and Yoojung suddenly very much wishes she had carried through on her threat to flush a certain root beer float down the toilet.

 

“Did… did I do something wrong, Yoojung?” Sanha finally speaks up as Yoojung finishes smearing the cream on his wrist, voice small and timid at her thunderous expression. “I-I’m sorry, I was just trying to be nice to the lady, I didn’t mean to-”

 

“ _No_ , Sanha,” Yoojung interrupts, so fiercely that all her boys look at her in surprise at the uncharacteristic display of ire. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Not a thing. That was all her, understand? I’m angry at _her_ , not you. Never you. This was not your fault. Never, ever, _ever_ think that, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Sanha looks a little reassured at that, but his expression doesn’t become any less troubled. “But… if I didn’t do anything wrong… why did she do that, then? Why did she want to… hurt me?”

 

Yoojung freezes, the words catching in her throat. This was not a conversation she’d pictured herself having with her boys for quite a long time, hopefully ever. There are some things she prefers to not ever think about, and this is one of them.

 

“You can’t keep them ignorant of the way the world works forever, Yoojung," Aroha speaks up from her seat on Sanha’s lap, practical as usual. “I wish they didn’t have to know, either. But they do. What if something like this happens again? What if that-” she hisses contemptuously, “- _abomination_ comes back?“

 

“She won’t be coming back if she knows what’s good for her,” Yoojung responds, sniffing distastefully, screwing the lid back on the jar and tossing it back in the kit with more force than probably necessary. “But alright, fine, I see your point.” She heaves a long sigh, and looks back at the boys, who are all still watching her patiently, used to what they perceive as her one-sided conversations with Aroha by now.

 

“To answer your question, Sanha,” she begins, “some people don’t really see constructs – even sophisticated, autonomous constructs like yourselves – as… well, as real people.”

 

“But… we’re not?” Jinjin says confusedly, his expression mirrored by the other boys. “We’re constructs. Why should they think we’re real people?”

 

“Okay, bad choice of phrasing,” she mutters, glancing around her workroom for something she can use as a visual aid. She spies a row of multicolored bottles on one of the counters and grabs one filled with red soda. “Alright, let’s put this a different way. What is the difference between this and Moonbin?”

 

“Well… he can talk, for one thing,” Rocky says after a moment, still looking very puzzled.

 

“He looks like a person,” Eunwoo pipes up.

 

“He tries to get away when I do _this_.” Grinning mischievously, MJ surreptitiously pinches Moonbin in the side. He immediately gets wrangled into a headlock for his troubles, earning smiles and giggles from the other boys as their oldest dramatically thrashes around like a beached fish.

 

“You’re all exactly right,” Yoojung says, grinning, as the commotion dies down and MJ manages to squirm away, shielding himself behind Jinjin to stave off any further retaliation. “He may have started out as a bottle of red soda, but that doesn’t mean he’s one anymore; he’s more than that. He has his own thoughts and feelings and opinions, just as you all do, and this makes you all people. Maybe not ‘real people’ but people all the same.”

 

All the boys nod thoughtfully in understanding.

 

“Some people don’t see it that way, though,” she continues. “They think that just because Moonbin _started out_ as a bottle of soda, there’s still no difference between him and one, not really. The bottle of soda is all they see. And if all you see is a bottle of soda, you feel like you can do whatever you want with it, because, after all, it’s not a _person_. So it wouldn’t matter if…” Yoojung drops the bottle, which shatters on the floor, spilling fizzy red soda everywhere, and as one, the boys all flinch violently. She tries to ignore how much it looks like blood, thinking ruefully that she probably should have used another color instead. The boys stare at the mess on the ground silently, all processing this distressing new information in different ways.

 

“That’s stupid,” Moonbin finally says, brow furrowed.

 

“That’s right, it absolutely is,” Yoojung nods. “But some people are stupid. It’s just how they are.”

 

“But there are other constructs around here,” Jinjin speaks up. “Like Target, sometimes. Or the mannequins at Shinee Emporium, Taeyeon and Jessica and Sunny and the others. People don’t treat them like that.”

 

She explains, “We’re in a place where magic is more accepted, so constructs are more accepted, too. But you still have people who think that just because someone is made of magic instead of born like normal human beings are, that makes them lesser.  That they can do whatever they want with them.”

 

“Like what?” Sanha asks nervously.

 

All the words Yoojung had been planning to say die in her throat at Sanha’s naïve question. How can she tell them? Her sweet, innocent boys? They’re only barely a year old; they shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of awfulness so soon! How can she possibly tell them that some people use and abuse their constructs in the most horrible ways imaginable? That some constructs aren’t even really able to properly process what is done to them because they weren’t built to be sentient or to have a personality? She doesn’t want to taint their minds like that.

 

“Like… well…” Yoojung replies instead. “You know how when you work the whole day and you’re tired and want to stop and go rest for a bit?”

 

The boys nod.

 

“Well, some people don’t let their constructs rest. They have to keep working even if they get tired, they never have time off to sleep or go play. Maybe they only have one set of clothes that they have to keep wearing all the time, even when they’re worn out and torn.”

 

“But I thought you said old things had sentimental value?” MJ speaks up confusedly after a moment. “Like your duck plushie. It’s all ratty and worn out, but you won’t get a new one.” 

 

“Well, yes,” she admits, a tad frustrated. “But I _could_ get a new one if I wanted to. I just don’t. What I’m talking about is if someone only has one set of clothes and they don’t have any choice if they get new ones or not, even if they ruin them, the way Rocky did with his one uniform when he wiped out on his bike. Imagine having to wear that all the time instead of a new outfit, even when it’s all ripped and dirty like that.”

 

Six pairs of eyes widen at this hitherto unthinkable concept. She continues. “But on that note, some constructs also can’t even leave their creators for any reason. They’re never allowed to go discover new things or travel or learn.”

 

“But Jinyoung lets Target travel,” Eunwoo points out.

 

“That’s right, because Jinyoung’s a good man who cares about his construct and allows her to make her own decisions about what she wants to do with her life. She wants to travel, so he lets her.”

 

“You would let us go if we wanted to leave, right, sis?” Sanha pipes up, voice small.

 

Trying to ignore the painful stab of sorrow that pierces her heart at the question, Yoojung wraps her arms around his skinny torso as far as they’ll go. “Of course, Sanha. I’d never want to keep you all here against your will. I want you to stay with me because you want to, not because you feel you have to. So of course you could leave if there places you really wanted to go, things you really wanted to do.”

 

“I don’t want to.” Sanha hugs her back fiercely, sounding relieved. “Not ever. I just…”

 

“You wanted to make sure,” Yoojung says knowingly. She leans back and ruffles his pale hair affectionately, feeling almost giddy with the relief that fills her at his reassurance. “It’s fine, I don’t blame you. I know this is a lot to take in.”

 

“Tell me about it,” Moonbin mutters, kicking at the glass shards littering the ground in the middle of the sticky puddle of drying red.

 

“Not everyone is like that, though,” she tries to reassure them. “Remember all the nice customers you’ve served, who have been nothing but courteous, even when they know what you are?”

 

The boys nod again, all looking a little more chipper.

 

“Most people are good, and will treat you the same way they treat everyone else. It’s only the bad few you have to watch out for, like that… _woman_ … earlier.”

 

“That’s okay, sis,” MJ says, smiling his bright, sunshine smile. “We’ll just have to show them they’re wrong, won’t we?” He grins at the others, so infectiously that they start to smile back. “We’ll be so cute and charming and nice that they’ll see we’re people just like them, so they’ll _have_ to treat us nicely back!”

 

“That’s the spirit, MJ,” Yoojung replies, smiling back as well. “If anyone would convince people of that, it’s you boys. Now,” she claps her hands decisively. “It’s almost closing time, so how about you boys get the shop cleaned up and head back to your apartment? I’ve got to go over to Sweet Girl for a bit to take care of something, but I promise to bring back some pizza for you, and we can hang out for a while at your place, how does that sound?” Something very warm and fond spreads throughout Yoojung’s chest as all six constructs’ faces light up, just as she’d hoped they would.

 

MJ dashes from the room, all but dragging Rocky and Jinjin with him. Moonbin helps Sanha off the stool, and the younger construct sets Aroha gently down on the floor, looking remarkably more settled than he did a few minutes ago. Yoojung snags Eunwoo’s broom as the remaining three constructs leave, promising to return it in a bit. Once she’s alone in her workroom, she sighs, leaning heavily on the broom for a moment and closing her eyes.

 

“You did good, Yoojung.” A warm, heavy weight alights on her shoulder, and she feels Aroha begin to preen her hair with her beak. “That could have gone a whole lot worse, but you handled it well.”

 

"Thanks," she says wryly, leaning her head lightly against her best friend's soft feathers.

 

“No, I mean it,” Aroha says earnestly. “Learning about these types of things… it’s never easy. The real world is a difficult place sometimes.”

 

“The real world _sucks_ , you mean” Yoojung mutters, using a cleaning cantrip to evaporate the sticky puddle of soda. “I came here to get _away_ from it. And instead there’s just more of the same gross _gunk_. I really thought the Sash would be different, you know?” She cuts herself with difficulty. No point in going down that particular road. “Never mind, I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’m just glad nothing worse happened and that the boys are okay.”

 

The thought of her boys automatically brings a soft smile to her face, as it usually does. And to think, all she’d really wanted initially when she’d first gotten the idea to create them all those months ago while in the midst of a sugar and caffeine-fueled late-night brainstorming session was some additional hands to take care of all the nitty-gritty details of running the store, while she got to spend all day in her workshop doing what she loved best. What better way to do that than to whip up some magical constructs of her very own? Most of the really popular stores had a few to advertise their wares, so it would likely be good for business, too! How hard could it be, really? But then, before she knew it, her pet project became much more than just a way to better allocate time and resources and draw in more of a crowd to her store, and she found herself in the possession of something she didn’t even know she’d been desperately missing: a family.

 

“Someone’s getting sentimental again,” Aroha says with a knowing glint in her beady brown eyes.

 

"I can't help it," Yoojung giggles sheepishly, her sour mood from earlier completely forgotten. "They're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Barring finding you on the beach after that storm, of course. You were so cute as a duckling." She scritches Aroha under her chin just the way she likes it.

 

“ _Excuse_ you, I’m still cute,” Aroha pouts, though if a duck could smile, Yoojung knows she'd be doing so. “No argument from me about the rest of that, though. Though I still wish you had decided to wait until I woke up so I could have helped you stabilize them. Instead I wake up to find you sprawled out in your lab covered in saltpeter, sodium, and fruit syrup, muttering incoherently about playing hide and seek with stars. I think I lost an entire year off my lifespan.”

 

"Ah yes, I believe your exact words were, 'You absolute idiot, what were you thinking, _were_ you thinking, you could have died, did that last batch of dandelion soda kill the remaining few brain cells you managed to hold onto,' etcetera, etcetera, it went on for awhile, I don't really remember the whole thing. I was kind of out of it."

 

“And I stand by that,” Aroha sniffs. “A sane person does not decide on a whim to make six full-size constructs from their own life force at the same time. You're lucky the Sash is so saturated with ambient magic, or you would have been six feet under instead of just being laid up in bed for six days.”

 

"Oh, you know you wouldn't have me any other way," Yoojung says blithely as she sweeps up the broken glass into a compact pile. "I still don't regret it, you know. I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

 

Aroha sighs and rests her beak atop Yoojung's head. “I know, you crazy girl. I know.”

 

"Besides, me being laid up just made the time go by faster until they were ready to wake up! It worked out for everyone," Yoojung adds impishly, unable to resist teasing Aroha a little more. A sharp nibble to her ear tells her that might have been a mistake "Ow, ow, quit it! Ow, I'm kidding, Aroha, Jinyoung and Dongwoo and the others at Sweet Girl already lectured me enough about this, you can stop now."

 

Mollified, the duck lets go of her ear and settles back down on her shoulder. “Speaking of Sweet Girl, I assume we're going there to spread the word about our previous unwelcome guest?” She ruffles her feathers and gives a reflexive hiss. “I'd have thought anyone that thoroughly unpleasant would know to stay far, far away from civilization. People like that are the reason witch hunts used to be a thing.”

 

"You'd assume right," Yoojung says, brows furrowing in an uncharacteristic scowl. "Her bag was full of textbooks about magical constructs."

 

Aroha's only response is to hiss even more violently, and Yoojung knows the duck has connected the same dots she had. 

 

"Mm-hmmm." The girl uses a simple transmutation spell to reassemble the pile of glass shards back into the bottle it used to be. She sets it back on the counter. "Anybody who has a construct around here miiiight have a small problem on their hands if that witch decides to ignore that that rather large hint I gave her."

 

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” Aroha asks, fluttering down from Yoojung's shoulder and waddling over to the door impatiently. “Let's get going.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

From his place next to the refrigerators, Moonbin watches Yoojung pedal away on Rocky's bicycle, Aroha settled comfortably in the front basket. For a split second, the sudden urge to run after her and ask her to stay is nearly overpowering. He knows that whatever she's doing must be important for her to be leaving so suddenly, though, so he restrains himself. Instead, he resumes his task of restocking the refrigerators from the crate Rocky had given him before their previous customer had arrived. A chill runs down his spine at the memory of the strange woman, and he only barely suppresses a shudder. She had unsettled him more than he cares to admit, and he really doesn't like the feeling.

 

As Moonbin places a bottle of green soda in the fridge, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sanha go to finish arranging the flowers. He sees him hesitate when picking up the scissors that the woman was holding to his throat, and a strange, cold fire kindles itself in his gut. The emotion is so foreign to Moonbin that it takes him a moment to identify it as anger.

 

Sure, Moonbin gets annoyed sometimes; with MJ and Sanha for roommates, who wouldn't, honestly. But he never remembers feeling this seething, icy ire toward a person before. He likes or is neutral to the vast majority of people he comes across; he can't ever recall... actively disliking someone.  And he doesn't just feel angry, he feels scared. And a little guilty, too. He was right there, he could have done something, but he didn't even realize what was happening until it was too late and the damage had been done. The fact that it was Sanha, their youngest, just makes it worse.

 

As he continues to carefully place bottles in the refrigerator, Moonbin's mind wanders, back to the very first thing he can remember in his short life.

 

He had been nothing. And then, in a burst of bright red steam and the sudden, sweet smell of strawberries, he was _him_. He sat, dazed and confused, on the edge of a table, in a bright room filled with bottles and beakers and jars and things he had no name for and color color color, so much _color_. The first thing he ever remembers hearing was his name, cried out loudly and joyously by a small person with bright pink cheeks and two messy braids ("Moonbin!"). They bounced over and immediately threw their arms around his middle, squeezing tight. Puzzled but oddly pleased, he'd hesitantly wrapped his arms around them in return, and was rewarded by a sweet, delighted giggle before the person (a girl, his mind helpfully supplied), leaned back and introduced herself as Yoojung, before she took his hand and gestured at three smiling young men sitting or standing a little ways off, who she'd said were his brothers.

 

A hissing pop to his left had Moonbin looking to the side to see a bottle of frothing, opaque yellow liquid bubbling quietly beside him. An identical bottle, this one filled with indigo blue liquid, sat on the table on the other side of the yellow bottle. Yoojung had laughed at his bewildered expression and told him he had two more brothers, but they hadn't arrived yet. And then he'd been pulled to his feet by the tall, calm one in a blue and white striped robe and blue jeans, who Yoojung informed him was called Eunwoo, while the short, loud one in an orange sweater and baseball cap, MJ, had attached himself like glue to his side. The easygoing, smallest one in green, Jinjin, beamed at him benignly from his seat on the floor, a white bird held securely in his lap.

 

Meanwhile, Yoojung bustled around like a miniature whirlwind, chattering a mile a minute at the four of them about anything and everything, answering any questions they might have had. Time seemed to pass all too quickly, even though they were there probably for an hour or two. And then there was a loud, fizzy hiss from the bottle of cobalt blue liquid. It shuddered, shook, gave a loud pop, and a cloud of indigo steam billowed up and filled the room with the tangy scent of ripe blackberries. The steam cleared after a few seconds, revealing a short young man in a navy blue jersey and headband sitting on the table where the bottle of indigo liquid had once been. He'd looked as disoriented and confused as Moonbin had first felt. As the newcomer swayed in disorientation, Moonbin instinctually stepped forward to steady him, and something inside him began to glow with gentle warmth as the shorter construct leaned trustingly against him, blinking up at him in curiosity. Yoojung had immediately dubbed him Rocky, greeting him with the same enthusiasm she'd greeted Moonbin.

 

Sanha had popped into existence from the yellow concoction some time later in a cloud of tart, lemony steam, all clumsy, coltish limbs and big, innocent dark eyes, his pale hair almost glowing in the bright lights of Yoojung's laboratory. He'd taken one look at them all, grinned brightly, stood up from his perch on the table... and immediately tripped over his own two feet, almost falling directly into a shelf stocked with jugs of flavored syrup. He'd only been saved from imminent disaster by Moonbin and Eunwoo, who'd lunged forward and caught him in the nick of time.

 

Ever since then, Moonbin's always considered it his unspoken duty to look after his two younger brothers, especially Sanha, who likes to goof off and doesn't always take things as seriously as he should. It's not that Moonbin doesn't love all his brothers, because he does, more than anything, and he would do anything for any of them, but those two... he doesn't know, he feels... responsible for them, somehow. And he was right there. _Right there_ when that woman just walked into the store, just like every other customer they'd ever had, and _hurt their Sanha_. On purpose. On _purpose_. Moonbin can hardly wrap his mind around the concept.

 

He's wrestled and play-fought with his brothers many a time, but he can't even fathom trying to hurt one of them badly enough to leave a mark. He remembers bashing his head on the low doorframe of a store once, stubbing his toe on the bathroom door during the night, burning his hand on the stove when he forgot it was on. He remembers how much those instances hurt, how much he never wanted that to happen again. He'd never inflict pain like that on someone deliberately. Even if it was by accident, he'd feel awful about it. He's felt awful about his brothers being in pain even when it _wasn't_ his fault, like when MJ sprained his ankle on his trampoline, or when Rocky crashed his bicycle and broke his arm. That had been the worst.

 

Poor Rocky had had to limp all the way back to the D.Store by himself, wheeling his wrecked bicycle the entire way with only one functioning arm, his face bruised and tearstained, blood trickling from his nostrils and matting his hair from a gash on his scalp. None of the soda constructs had ever seen blood before. Personally, Moonbin never wants to see it again. Red may be his favorite color, for a number of reasons, but he'd hated that particular red the instant he'd laid eyes on it.

 

Rocky hadn't complained more than he could help while he was convalescing, weathering the discomfort with his trademark quiet stoicism, but Moonbin, and all the others for that matter, could tell that he had been in a great deal of pain for the first few days, despite the little white pills Yoojung had given him that she said would help make the worst of the pain go away. And someone would want to do that to him, to the rest of them, deliberately? Just because they're constructs? Why? Moonbin doesn't understand. He doesn't _understand_. He's not even sure he really wants to.

 

With a jolt, Moonbin realizes that he's run out of bottles to put in the fridge. He picks up the empty box and hands it off to Rocky, before glancing back in the direction of the flower table. Sanha has just finished with the flowers, and is wiping the table down with a rag. His sleeve rides up a little with his motions, exposing the dark, purplish marks marring his pale skin. Swallowing the odd, sudden obstruction in his throat, Moonbin wanders over and wraps Sanha in a tight back hug, nuzzling his face into his neck. The taller construct starts slightly in surprise before melting into the embrace.

 

"I'm okay, Binnie, don't worry," he assures, reaching up and patting Moonbin's arm. "Honestly, you fuss more than Jinjin sometimes, it's embarrassing."

 

"Lies and slander," Moonbin gasps in mock outrage, shoving a giggling Sanha away in exaggerated indignation. He feels a little better afterwards, though. Not entirely, but a bit.

 

As the six constructs finish their cleaning and prepare to leave the D.Store, Moonbin's unease comes back in full force. He makes sure to keep Sanha in his periphery the entire walk the few blocks to their apartment, keeping the rest of his attention focused on their surroundings.

 

Once they get cleaned up and changed, Moonbin picks up one of his comic books and belly flops onto his bed to read it. He's been itching to read it all day, but now he finds he can't concentrate. His gaze keeps wandering over to Sanha, who is seated on the edge of his bed, plucking listlessly at the strings of his guitar. Rocky suddenly plunks himself on the mattress next to him and rests his chin on the younger boy's shoulder.

 

"I wanna dance," he announces. He taps the yellow wood of the guitar's body, and levels his brother with truly impressive puppy dog eyes. "Play something for me, San?"

 

Sanha perks up at the request and immediately starts strumming the intro to one of their favorite songs. Jinjin joins in a few seconds later, climbing onto Sanha's bed himself and laying down a brisk beat on the metal bedframe with his drumsticks. MJ grins brightly from his own bed right across from Sanha's and starts belting out the first verse, his clear, bright voice raised in joyful abandon as Rocky begins to pop and lock and dip and sway. As Moonbin watches the scene unfold with indulgent fondness, he feels the bed dip next to him, a warm weight pressing up against his left side. He glances over to see Eunwoo lying on his stomach next to him.

 

"Hey." The older construct nudges his shoulder companionably. "You okay?"

 

"I don't think I'm the one you should be asking," Moonbin mutters quietly, averting his gaze.

 

"I think you're exactly the person I should be asking," Eunwoo returns seriously. "You've been wound up tighter than one of Sanha's guitar strings for the last couple hours. I know how you get when it comes to the youngest two. I think we all feel a little shaken up right now, honestly."

 

 _Oh._ Moonbin immediately feels ashamed. He'd been so focused on Sanha that he hadn't really given much thought about how the others must be processing the last hour, too.

 

Eunwoo's expression immediately turns concerned at Moonbin's crestfallen look. "Hey, Bin, it's fine. I wasn't trying to imply that you did anything wrong. Nobody did. I'm just saying you deserve to have someone worry about you, too. Sanha may be younger than you, but _you're_ younger than _me_ , and I reserve the right to fret over you as much as I please." He rests his head against Moonbin's shoulder. "So breathe. Relax. It's over. Yoojung has everything under control. Like she said, it's fine. Sanha's fine. We're fine. You're fine. It's _fine_. Okay?"

 

At his elder brother's gentle reassurance, Moonbin feels the tension he didn't even realize he'd been carrying begin to steadily drain away. With a soft sigh, he lets his head drop to rest against Eunwoo's for a moment. "Okay."

 

"Okay then." Moonbin can hear the smile in Eunwoo's voice before he straightens up, dislodging Moonbin in the process. "Now, show me what you've been reading. This is a new one, right?"

 

"Yeah," Moonbin replies, opening the comic book to the first page. He grins to himself as Eunwoo nestles closer to see the pictures better, inwardly relishing the warm, reassuring presence of another friendly body flush against his. The sounds of Jinjin, Sanha, and MJ's music fills the air, and a quick side glance shows that Rocky certainly doesn't plan on stopping his dancing anytime soon. Surrounded by light and music and the presence of his brothers, Moonbin finally allows himself to feel at peace. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lotta worldbuilding in this chapter, but I tried my best to make it interesting. Yoojung is really fun to write, and so is Moonbin surprisingly enough.


	4. Just Live For Me

The witch comes back to herself with a violent jolt that nearly knocks her completely off her bed. She sits there for a moment, breathing hard, processing what just happened. She feels for the strap of her satchel that was just across her chest, and finds it conspicuously absent. Her books… her _door key_ … With an enraged shout, she grabs up the nearest thing at hand – a hairbrush – and flings it straight at her vanity mirror. The mirror shatters with a crash that does absolutely nothing to help her mood.

 

That key was her only way out of this house, and now it’s _gone_. It will take her _weeks_ to enchant another one, and that’s if she can even find the proper components. Not to mention her books, which she spent so much time and energy trying to obtain, are gone before she ever even got the chance to read them. And on top of all that, she outed herself to that little _bitch_ , who is no doubt going around at this very moment telling all her little friends in the settlement to be on the lookout for her in case she ever comes back. Which means that she’s lost probably her one chance to get the information she needs.

 

All these thoughts whirl around in her head, over and over again, and she progressively becomes more and more infuriated until she’s physically shaking. Amidst the chaotic tempest in her mind, one thought rises above the others: this is her dolls’ fault. If they hadn’t gone against her, broke her careful conditioning, she wouldn’t even _be_ in this predicament in the first place. The bloodlust that she’d felt when pinning the soda construct against the wall comes roaring back with a vengeance, and she surges to her feet with a snarl, her fatigue forgotten in the rush of rage-fueled adrenaline coursing through her.    

 

The witch storms down to her dungeon, the desire to _hurt_ something, to make something _scream_ , so strong that she almost wants to scream herself. She wants _blood_. She wants to make something _pay_ for the humiliation she just endured, and she knows just the target to vent her fury upon.

 

Ignoring the rest of her dolls entirely, she goes right for her fourth and drags him out of his cage using the effigy, which is _still_ leaking stuffing all over the floor (yet another thing for her to fix, _dammit_ ). She’s too tired to want a challenge at this point, and her fourth can always be trusted to oblige her when she just needs to hear something scream. She slams him onto her wooden table so hard that something gives an audible _crack_ (whether it’s the table or him, she neither knows nor cares), binds his hands and feet, grabs the first sharp thing at hand, and takes a split second to appreciate the look of pure fear on his face before unceremoniously plunging the serrated knife deep into his shoulder.  

 

Her mind goes blank for awhile after that, as she lets the sounds of her fourth’s agonized screams and feel of warm crimson coating her fingertips wash over her, satiating the primal hunger pounding through every fiber of her being. She _slashes_ , she _stabs_ , she _takes_ , she _consumes_ , she _uses_ her doll like the mere toy he is, reveling in her absolute power and control over him.

 

After an indeterminate amount of time, she gradually returns to herself and realizes that her fourth’s screams have stopped. The doll lies before her, staring vacantly at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes, his ragged breathing loud in the sudden silence of the room. His body is an absolute mess, long, jagged gashes covering his torso and every limb, all steadily weeping scarlet tears. Red coats her own arms all the way to the elbows, and there are smeared, bloody handprints covering him from head to toe, each another signature that unmistakably marks him as her possession. Hers. _Hers_. No one else’s.

 

The doll certainly isn’t in danger of death, but she knows the sheer number of injuries inflicted will take some time to heal by themselves, especially with no food for him to eat. She really doesn't feel like waiting that long. While she does have plenty of things to occupy her time, like the mice still in her workroom, fixing her pantry, or making another door key, she prefers most of her dolls to be conscious and available for play at any one time if the mood strikes her. A full half out of commission at once is just unacceptable. She can't think of the last time she lost control like this, and the principle of the thing annoys her deeply. Stupid dolls, making her do this. Stupid dolls, stupid dolls, stupid dolls, stupid-!

 

A weak, reflexive whimper emerges from her fourth, and she realizes she's rammed her knife into his shoulder again without even realizing it. More crimson bubbles up around the blade, soaks into tattered, bloodstained cloth, but the doll’s red-streaked face remains blank and unresponsive. Well, it looks like there’s no point in hurting him further. Her dolls are never any fun when they get like this.

 

As that thought crosses her mind, an abrupt rush of fatigue makes her sway slightly on her feet. The all-consuming rage and aggression filling her drains away now that her desire for blood has been appeased, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. She can deal with the rest of this mess and the rest of her dolls some other time. She's too tired to muster up any more emotion right now.

 

After unbinding her doll, she hauls his limp, dead weight bodily off the table, using the very last dregs of her magic reserves to remotely open the door of her sixth’s cell and then close it again once she deposits her fourth inside. She doesn't even have the energy to summon a cleaning spell for the table, her tools, or her arms. Whatever. Later. She can deal with it _later_. She barely remembers to hang up the effigy before she leaves, and proceeds to stumble up the stairs to her room, intent on finding her bed and taking a long, long nap.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Inked sits huddled against the back wall of his cell, still as stone. He’s almost afraid that if he moves, She’ll come back again, hurt him, hurt someone else, hurt all of them. He’s seen Her angry, of course, but this… this was on a whole other level of terrifying. It’s like She hadn’t even seen Loud while She was hurting him, She just tore into him mindlessly, again and again and again. Normally She’s so methodical and deliberate about how She hurts them. He’s never seen Her lose complete control like that. So until he’s absolutely sure She’s gone, he’s not budging from this spot.

 

Her favorite and Tallest are apparently in agreement with that sentiment, because no one moves or speaks for a long, long time. Finally, Tallest warily approaches Loud’s motionless body, carefully gathering it into his arms. Her favorite senses the movement from the other doll’s cell and begins to crawl over to Broken, who is still laying in the same, awkward position he’d fallen in when Her favorite hastily shoved him away in panic the second they’d all heard Her coming back far ahead of schedule. By the way Broken immediately latches onto him when he gets close enough to touch, though, he doesn’t hold it against him. They’d have all done the same thing, after all.

 

The dolls’ bond with each other is only thing they have that is solely, wholly theirs and that She has no part of, the one aspect of their lives that they have control over. Inked, for one, wants to keep it that way. He’d known instinctively, from the moment She put Loud in with him all that time ago, that if She knew just how much the dolls meant to each other, She’d take that away from them, too, twist it and ruin it the way She ruins everything else. So they keep any outward expression of their love hidden and tucked away, until it’s just the six of them alone.

 

Inked closes his eyes, focuses, opens them again, and then slowly, cautiously, finally also uncurls himself from his compact huddled position and crawls toward the front of his cell where Smallest’s unconscious body lies. As he approaches the front of his cage, he pauses, trying to see more clearly into Tallest’s cell. Loud now lies limply in Tallest’s lap, head pillowed on his shoulder, the bloody handprint marking the left side of his face standing out starkly against his pale skin. He stares blankly into space, not reacting at all to any of Tallest’s attempts to rouse him, his usually bright, inquisitive eyes dull and empty. Inked recognizes that look all too well, and feels his heart sink. He hates it when the others get like this, simply because it’s so unnerving to witness. But he doesn’t begrudge Loud for it in the least. He knows the other has simply done what all the dolls do, sometimes, when the suffering just becomes too much, too overwhelming for their conscious minds to process anymore, and briefly withdrew to someplace deep inside himself, someplace safe, where She can no longer reach him.

 

Inked shivers, remembering the way She kept _touching_ their Loud. Like She wanted to make sure he would always feel Her hands all over him, even when She’s gone. No, he definitely doesn’t blame Loud whatsoever for wanting to escape from that.

 

As if he can sense Inked’s eyes on them, Tallest glances over and gives him a brief nod. _I’ve got him,_ it seems to say. _I’ll take care of him._ Thus reassured, Inked lies back down beside Smallest’s supine form and curls around him again. He interlaces the fingers of his right hand with Smallest’s limp, unresponsive ones and closes his eyes, a long silence falling in the dungeon once again.

 

And then Smallest’s fingers twitch. He stirs against Inked’s chest, groaning quietly. 

 

“Smallest?” Inked murmurs worriedly, sitting up quickly. He’d hoped Smallest would stay unconscious for longer, preferably until he was as close to fully healed as he was going to get. He knows that the other doll must still be in a great deal of pain, given how comparatively short a time has passed since he was dumped into Inked’s cell. “How do you feel?”

 

Another soft, agonized groan is his only response, which only serves to confirm his suspicions. A single tear manages to escape from Smallest’s closed eyelid and trickles down his nose.

 

“Do you think you can handle some water, Smallest?” Inked asks, gently brushing a stray lock of hair back from Smallest’s face, desperate to be of some sort of use.

 

Smallest makes a pained expression, not even bothering to open his eyes. “Not sure,” he rasps, voice hoarse and rough, a marked departure from its usual, mellifluous timbre.  

 

“Let’s try it, then. Just a little at first, and then you can have more later if you think it’s helping.” Inked slides his arm down to support Smallest’s shoulders, cradling his head in the crook of his arm, and helps him roll over so he can sit up easier. Smallest whimpers at the motion, but allows himself to be moved without resistance, and gamely tries to drink as much of the water as he can when Inked holds the cup to his lips. After about half is drained, Inked carefully pulls the cup away and sets it aside.

 

He then helps Smallest lie back down, facing the opposite direction this time, so the two dolls are face to face instead of front to back, their foreheads just a few scant inches apart. As the water starts working its way through Smallest’s system, he seems to receive a small burst of energy, and he finally opens his eyes.

 

_Oh..._

 

Inked always thought Smallest’s eyes were a plain dark brown. Up close, though, with the dim light illuminating his cage hitting them in just the right way, Inked sees they’re shot through with flecks of bright amber, and Inked finds he can’t tear his own eyes away from the sight. He then feels fingers lightly brush his cheek, and blinks to find Smallest gazing back at him in just as much awe, drinking him in like he drank the water just a couple minutes before. He traces the black tattoo under Inked’s right eye wonderingly, almost reverently, as if assuring himself that this is real, that Inked really is right in front of him. Inked simply lies there quietly and lets him explore, full of tender, indulgent affection.

 

“How is everyone else?” Smallest finally asks, withdrawing his hand with some obvious reluctance after his fingers have mapped out every square inch of Inked’s face he can reach. “Is Broken healing okay?”

 

“He should be, since She put him in with Her favorite. Though-” Inked raises his voice slightly, interjecting a teasing lilt into his tone, “-with how he pushed him away when She came back, I’m not too sure how it’s going now…”

 

“Hey, I _said_ I was sorry,” Her favorite interjects peevishly from the next cell over, where Broken is back to being contently draped over him. Inked and Smallest share a fond, conspiratorial grin before a slightly confused look crosses Smallest’s face.

 

“Wait… She came back? How long was I asleep for?”

 

“Not long, I don’t think, since you’re not that healed yet,” Inked replies. “She came back early. She seemed… really angry about something.”

 

Smallest knows what happens when She gets angry, and his expression quickly turns to one of deep concern. “Who…?”

 

“Loud. Just Loud. She didn’t even look at anyone else.”

 

“How bad is it?” Smallest asks worriedly, trying to lift himself up on one arm and twist around, even if he couldn’t see into Loud’s cell from this angle anyway. Inked rolls his eyes and simply exerts a bit of force on the arm wrapped around the other doll. Smallest is still so weak that the small amount of pressure is all it takes to effectively pin him in place. Once he stops his ineffectual squirming and resorts to simply pouting grumpily at the other doll, Inked finally answers his question.

 

“Loud’s gone away,” he says simply, and Smallest’s eyes widen in sorrow and alarm as he immediately catches the implications of that sentence.  Hastening to reassure him, Inked continues: “But Tallest’s got him, Smallest, he’ll be there to take care of him when he comes back, you don’t have to worry. You know Loud never can stay away for very long.” He rubs Smallest’s back comfortingly. “So just focus on yourself and getting better, okay?”

 

“What he said,” Her favorite chimes in, echoed by Tallest.

 

“I guess I’m outnumbered, aren’t I?” Smallest huffs a short laugh and goes silent for a minute before something seems to occur to him and he gives a small gasp.

 

“Help me up, Inked? Please?” he asks, looking up at Inked pleadingly, almost desperately. “I want to see the others. Just for a bit. Please, Inked?” Inked rolls his eyes again, but finds himself caving even as he does so. He knows very well how Smallest feels right now, and at least he’s asking for help this time instead of foolishly trying to move himself in such a state. He carefully helps Smallest sit up, supporting him sturdily against his side so that he can see out into the rest of the room unimpeded.

 

As Smallest catches sight of the others, his eyes take on a glossy shine, and he swallows convulsively a few times. He looks and looks, as if he’s trying to burn the sight of the two other pairs of dolls nestled contently against each other indelibly into his memory. After an indeterminate amount of time, Smallest finally speaks up quietly.

 

“Isn’t it beautiful, Inked?” he murmurs, not taking his eyes off the others. “For the first time… none of us are alone.”

 

Inked blinks in surprise. He’d been so wrapped up in his concern that he hadn’t even registered the fact that each of the dolls is now caged with someone else for the first time he can remember. And Smallest remembers more than all the other dolls put together; if he says this is the very first time, it must be true.

 

“It is, isn’t it?” he finally replies. His arms reflexively tighten around Smallest, and the other leans his head against his neck with a soft, weary hum of contentment.

 

Inked honestly would be perfectly happy to stay like this forever, but the peaceful silence in the dungeon is eventually shattered by Smallest breaking into yet another coughing fit. Inked immediately lies back down with Smallest enfolded securely in his arms, held close to his chest to try and mitigate any convulsions he might go into. Thankfully, the coughing fit isn’t as bad as the ones that preceded it, but Smallest is still reduced to a winded, spent, shaky mess by the end of it. Inked leans back and worriedly wipes away the small trickle of blood leaking from Smallest’s lips, taking a bit of consolation in the fact that least there’s less than last time. Smallest starts a little at the sudden contact, a brief, haunted look flashing across his face, before he relaxes and smiles at Inked gently.

 

“Thank you for taking care of me so well, Inked. You’re really very good at it, you know,” he says faintly, too tired to speak in more than a whisper. With visible effort, he leans forward and presses a chaste, feather-light kiss to Inked’s cheek, right underneath his tattoo. “I love you.” 

 

Inked is so overcome with emotion at those three, simple words, said so freely and sincerely, that he briefly loses his ability to speak. By the time he finds it again, Smallest’s dropped back off to sleep, simply too exhausted to stay awake any longer. He lies limp and pliant in Inked’s embrace, the long column of his throat bared trustingly, rendering him completely at the larger doll’s mercy. And yet, despite his helpless state, Smallest slumbers peacefully, seemingly without a care in the world.

 

Not for the first time, Inked marvels at the sheer amount of trust it takes for the dolls to be so vulnerable with each other, when all they’ve known from the only other person in their lives is abuse and pain. If he were so inclined, Inked knows that he could very easily cause Smallest even more harm, especially in his condition; and yet, Smallest trusts him enough to voluntarily sleep in his presence, to protect and look after him when he’s unable to do it himself. Broken and Loud similarly trust Her favorite and Tallest just as much. The notion is amazing, humbling, and even slightly terrifying, that they’d all depend on each other so wholly.

 

Blinking some suspicious moisture from his eyes, Inked gently nuzzles his nose against Smallest’s temple before pulling him close to rest flush against his chest again. “I love you, too,” he admits to the other doll’s comatose form, so quietly that even he can barely hear it. And he does. He loves them all. So, so much.

 

In fact, Inked does not have a word in his vocabulary to adequately describe or categorize just how much these five beings mean to him. But, some tiny, deeply buried part of his psyche whispers the word _pack_ every time he contemplates their place in his life, and while he does not know the meaning of the word, something about it just _feels_ right. He protects them, and they protect him. He is theirs, and they are his. He cannot imagine life without them.

 

He hears a brief murmur of voices from Tallest’s cell, signifying that Loud has finally returned from whatever place he’d hidden himself away, before silence falls once again. The three pairs of dolls huddle together on the cold, hard floors of their respective cages, and Inked is content in the knowledge that for now, at least, they are all safe and secure in the warm presence of someone who loves them.

 

Surely, nothing could be better than this.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because these poor dolls deserve a break for once, dammit, just let them have this. T_T 
> 
> Back to Astro/Yoojung in the next chapter, with special guest cameos by certain members of B1A4. :D


	5. So Easy to Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MVs referenced: Astro's "Crazy, Sexy, Cool"; B1A4's "Sweet Girl" and "Beautiful Target";

“Hello?” Yoojung pushes open the door to the Sweet Girl café, poking her head in curiously. “Junghwan? Chanshik?” 

 

“Yoojung!” A smiling man pokes his head up from behind the bar, beaming from ear to ear so widely that if Yoojung didn’t know better, she’d think he’s be in danger of splitting his face in half. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! What brings you here on such a fine evening?”

 

“Something serious, I’m afraid, Jungwhan,” she returns, her own answering grin merely a shadow of what it would have normally been. “Could you get everyone, please? It’s important.”

 

Jungwhan studies her uncharacteristically serious expression for a moment before nodding. “Seonwoo and Channie are out shopping right now, but Dongwoo and Jinyoung should still be around. Be right back.”

 

He disappears into a side room, and Yoojung takes the opportunity to set Aroha on a chair and upend the satchel on one of the back tables. The books thunk thunk thunk atop the wood, followed by an unexpected clang of metal and a hefty, jingling thwack as a black, iron skeleton key and a small pouch fall among the books. Yoojung is just about to reach for the key when Jungwhan steps back in the room, trailed by Dongwoo and Jinyoung.

 

“Back as requested! Between Jinyoung, Dongwoo, and me, whatever problem you’re having is already as good as taken care of.” The spellsinger beams winningly at her, and Yoojung can’t help but return it before getting down to business.

 

She explains the situation as succinctly as she can, displaying the books and the key to the three men and handing over the bag containing the rotted rose to Dongwoo for closer inspection. Their faces become graver and graver as she goes on, even the ever-jovial Jungwhan looking deadly serious by the end of it.

 

“Well, this certainly is a situation and no mistake,” he observes once Yoojung runs out of words to say. He turns to the two older men. “Hyungs? What do you make of-?”

 

“Ah, Dongwoo, I wouldn’t-” Yoojung cuts him off, reaching out towards the tall, quiet man, who’s just opened the plastic bag to get a better look at the rose. Her warning came too late, as Dongwoo, after catching one small whiff of the foul magic saturating the withered flower, breaks into a violent coughing fit.

 

The other three’s noses immediately wrinkle at the rancid stench of black sorcery and plant rot that fills the room, though none of them have quite an adverse reaction to it as Dongwoo does. Jungwhan yanks the bag out of the other magician’s hands and ties it shut again in a quick flurry of movement. Jinyoung, meanwhile, mutters a few words, and a brief, stiff breeze picks up in the room, clearing the pervasive odor away.

 

“Okay, putting that on the list of things for Seonwoo to burn once he gets back,” Jungwhan mutters, gingerly setting the bag on the table next to the small stack of books. He pats Dongwoo on the shoulder. “You okay, hyung?”

 

Dongwoo nods, removing his glasses to wipe his watery eyes. “Yes, I just… it took me by surprise, is all. I wasn’t expecting it to be so… potent. How anyone could stand to use magic like that, I will never understand.”  
  
“I wouldn’t think you’d want to,” Jinyoung observes, carefully picking up the skeleton key between a thumb and forefinger and frowning at it. “By the way, Dongwoo, is this-?”

 

“A Door key, yeah, looks like it.” Dongwoo takes the item from Jinyoung and examines it himself.

 

“If it is… shouldn’t we follow her?” Yoojung ventures, tapping her fingers restlessly against the table. “Once everyone else around here is told, I mean. Make sure she’s not hurting anyone else. There’s no telling what a person like her could be capable of.”

 

“I’m down for that,” Jungwhan nods. “Better safe than sorry. People like that are a disaster just waiting to happen.”

 

“It’s not a bad idea in theory, but here, look.” Jinyoung leans over and points to a tiny rune etched into the body of the key that everyone else seems to have missed. “The key’s hexed.”

 

“You’re right, it is,” Dongwoo breaths, holding it up to the light to get a better look at it. “Oh gosh, this is bad.”

 

“Define ‘bad,’” Jungwhan says nervously. “Like, ‘minor inconvenience’ bad, or ‘we’re all about to die in horrible and painful ways’ bad?”

 

“More like ‘being teleported to the middle of a volcano or the bottom of the ocean if you’re not the original creator of the tool and you try to use it’ bad,” Dongwoo explains succinctly. “In fact, it would probably be best if this was destroyed ASAP. I don’t like having it in this building. There’s no telling what else could be wrapped up in that hex, just waiting to be set off.”

 

Jinyoung, meanwhile, lets out a long, low whistle, having cautiously tugged open the drawstring pouch while Dongwoo was speaking to reveal a significant amount of silver and gold coins. “Looks like your theory was right, Yoojung,” he says, showing the money to the rest of them. “She came here for the books initially, and then got distracted by your boys. It doesn’t appear to be cursed, either, so that’s a plus.”

 

“What do we do with the money, then?” Yoojung asks, fidgeting with the end of one of her braids. “Do you want to split it, or…?”

 

“I think you should keep it, Yoojung,” Dongwoo says, plucking the pouch out of Jinyoung’s hands and passing it to a startled Yoojung while studiously ignoring Jungwhan’s show of betrayed pouting. “It was your construct she hurt, after all. It’s the least she can do to make up for it. It’s not as if we could return it to her, anyway.”

 

“Well… if you’re sure…” Yoojung says doubtfully, accepting the bag from the tall man with some reluctance and placing it in her pocket, where it sits heavily.

 

“So then, moving onto our next course of action, the first thing to do is make sure everyone else is aware of the situation,” Jinyoung says thoughtfully, chin held in one hand. “The Shinee Emporium would probably be the best place to start. It’ll be closing up soon, but Minho should still be around at least.”

 

Dongwoo nods. “Then I’ll dispose of the key in the meantime. We should still have some acid somewhere in the workroom from the engraved door hanging we made for those newlyweds who wanted a prosperity charm for their apartment. That should be enough to get rid of the hex, at least, and the whole key, if we’re lucky.”

 

“I’ll stay behind to watch the restaurant,” Jungwhan offers. “That way I can tell anyone who comes that has any constructs about the dark witch, too. It’ll cut down on your workload a bit, Jinyoung.” 

 

“Sounds like a plan. Yoojung, what are you going to be doing?”

 

“I was actually going to go over to the pizza parlor on the other side of town and get a couple pizzas for the boys after I stopped here,” Yoojung admits sheepishly. “Getting to eat actual food is always a treat for them, and since they’ve had a rough day, I thought it might cheer them up a bit. But-” she hastens to add, “-I can totally help too! I have Rocky’s bike, maybe I can-”

 

“No need,” Jinyoung cuts her off with a smile, patting the top of her head gently. “We’ll take it from here, Yoojungie. Thanks for offering, though.”  

 

“Okay,” she replies, not even bothering trying to hide the immense flood of relief that washes over her at his words, at the assurance that this whole mess is out of her hands now and that much more experienced, knowledgeable magic users are on the case.

 

“And hey, if you want, you could get the pizzas delivered here,” Jungwhan offers. “It’d be less of a hassle for you, and I’d have someone to keep me company while I wait for Seonwoo and Chanshik to get back.”

 

And thus, fifteen minutes later, Yoojung finds herself seated at a back table nursing a mug of coffee while next to her, Ahroha gleefully gobbles cucumber slices from a bowl of water, thoughtfully set out by Dongwoo before he retreated to the back workroom. Jungwhan is busy seating a man and a freckled little girl with long brown braids and thick, coke bottle glasses, presumably his daughter. Once he has them situated and brought them their drinks, he wanders back to Yoojung’s table. He takes a seat in the chair opposite her after spinning it around and sitting in it backwards, resting his arms on the backrest and gazing at her intently.

 

“Alright, spill,” he finally says, tapping his fingers against the back of the chair. “Something’s eating at you, I can tell.

 

“What makes you say that?” she says innocently, taking a casual sip of her coffee.

 

“Well, you decided to stay here, for one thing, instead of going directly to the pizza parlor; you always prefer company when something is bugging you. Plus the fact you’re drinking _coffee_. Sure, it has about a half-ton of sugar and creamer in it, but that’s beside the point. _Coffee_ , Yoojung.” He gives her a knowing look.

 

“Maybe I just like taking advantage of your generous nature,” she teases glibly, trying to change the subject. She likes all the employees of the Sweet Girl café very much, but Jungwhan has always been her not-so-secret favorite. He _gets_ her, in a way that very, very few other beings have ever even come close to managing. Most of the time, she loves that, but right now, it’s just a bit annoying. Can’t he see she doesn’t want to think about this anymore?

 

“Aha! My suspicions have been confirmed!” Jungwhan points a dramatic finger at her, looking suitably outraged before sobering again. “But seriously, Yoojung.”

 

“Oh, stop dancing around the subject and just tell him,” Aroha mutters from the floor, in the middle of gulping down another cucumber slice. “I swear, you pick the oddest times to get cagy. Get it all off your chest with a fellow human, you’ll feel better. You’re going to give me indigestion at this rate.” 

 

Yoojung holds out for about thirty seconds more before she finally caves, wilting dejectedly over her coffee. “I dunno,”she sighs, rubbing her face tiredly. “I just… I guess... everything that happened earlier just caught up with me all at once. That witch… she could have _killed_ Sanha, Jungwhan. I think she almost _wanted_ to. Or at least hurt him so badly that he would have died afterwards. The boys aren’t that durable, you know; one hard enough hit, one bad enough injury, and they’ll shatter irreparably.” She bites her lip, trying to fight back sudden tears. “I mean, Rocky already scared me half to death when he crashed his bike, and that was just an accident. What if she comes back? What if I’m not there when she does? What if-?” A finger on her lips cutes her off.

 

“Do you know how many grey hairs Jinyoung has because of all the close calls Target’s had over the years?” Jungwhan asks.

 

“No…?” she mumbles around his finger.

 

“And you never will, because if he finds out I told you, I’m a dead man, and I’d like to have at least one girlfriend before I bite the dust, thanks. Suffice it to say it’s quite a few. We didn’t name her Target for no reason, y’know; girl’s kind of like a walking disaster magnet. Even Malgeumie’s given Dongwoo a couple bad scares, and the little guy spends 98% of his time in Dongwoo’s pockets. So I think it’s normal for creators of constructs to feel a little bit paranoid from time to time, especially after a close call like the one your boys just had.” He leans back, and smiles gently at her.

 

“But if it’d help, I’d be happy to help you make some alarm wards for the D.Store later this week. I’m sure the other guys would help, too.”

 

“That’s a great idea!” Yoojung perks up at the suggestion immediately, mind already filling with ideas and plans. “But it’s okay, Jungwhan, I’m sure I can manage on my own. You all have already done so much for me and the boys already, what with helping me find an apartment for them after I realized they weren’t all going to fit above the D.Store in mine, you teaching MJ how to sing, Jinyoung teaching Sanha how to play the guitar… I don’t want to be a bother, or anything.”

 

“It’s no bother at all,” Jungwhan replies, his beaming smile as open and honest as the sun on a cloudless day. “What are neighbors for? And besides, we’re all quite fond of your boys, too, you know. None of us want anything to happen to them, either.” He glances behind him as the door to the store opens, letting in another group of customers. “Whoop, duty calls. See you around, kiddo.” He departs, leaving Yoojung feeling very warm inside.

 

The pizzas arrive in another ten minutes. After giving Jungwhan a big hug and thanking him again for his help one last time, Yoojung departs with her duck, stopping by the D.Store briefly to pick up some sodas before biking the few blocks to the small apartment building where her boys live. As she hears the music and singing filter through the door to their room, she hesitates for a moment in the dim hallway, loath to break up their fun, before Aroha takes matters into her own wings and raps on the door with her beak.  The music stops and the door opens a few seconds later, the boys eagerly ushering her into the bright light of their room with open arms.

 

Yoojung watches with indulgent affection as her six constructs happily scarf down slice after slice of gooey, greasy pizza. They technically don’t need to eat, since her magic supplies all the nutritional requirements their bodies need, but it’s still somehow gratifying to see them enjoy the food so much. After all that’s left of the pizzas are some grease stains in the cardboard boxes they came in and the bottles of soda are drained,  the boys beg her to tell them a story, which honestly takes very little convincing on their part. Honestly, if she hadn’t gone into the confectionary business, she’d probably have chosen to be an actress instead.

                                                                                                                                                        

The boys all work together to push MJ, Moonbin, and Eunwoo’s bedframes against each other all in a line and then pile on the combined three mattresses, while Yoojung perches directly across the room from them on Jinjin’s bed. Scary stories are her favorite (and she does have to admit that her boys have the _best_ dramatic reactions to them), but upon second thought… maybe she should forgo one of those tonight in favor of something a bit more tame. So she begins regaling the boys with the tale of a wingless fairy bravely setting forth from her village to find the cure for a sudden sickness that befell all her friends. They listen attentively, Aroha napping contently on Sanha’s lap, apparently still a bit clingy. After about an hour or so, Yoojung notices a couple of the boys hiding yawns behind their hands, though she can tell they’re still trying their best to pay attention and not miss a word.

 

“Alright, I think it’s time we stop for the night,” Yoojung announces, right before the climax of the story is about to start. “I can finish the story tomorrow.”

 

A loud chorus of disappointed groans greets her words, but the boys obligingly begin to tuck into bed.

 

“Um… would it be okay if I stay with you tonight, MJ?” Sanha murmurs, as the older construct begins to pull back his covers.

 

“Hey, why not,” MJ returns easily. “As a matter of fact, hey, Moonbin, Eunwoo, you want to keep your beds here for the night? We can all sleep here and then move them back in the morning.” Everyone seems agreeable to this arrangement, and Sanha sets Aroha down on the ground, hurrying over to his own bed to fetch his favorite stuffed animal, a duck plushie Yoojung had made for him modeled after her own after Sanha had taken a shine to it shortly after the constructs were first created. On his way back to MJ’s bed, Yoojung stops him.

 

“Are you feeling okay, San?” she asks, pulling up the sleeve of his pajama shirt to inspect his bruised wrist. “Do I need to get you some aspirin or anything like that?”

 

He grins reassuringly at her. “Nah, sis, I’m fine; it’s sore, but I can manage.”

 

“If you’re sure.”  She enfolds his tall, scrawny form in her short arms before stretching up to give him a gentle peck on the cheek, right under his bruise. Sanha’s ears turn an adorable shade of bright pink.

 

“Awwww, I don’t get a kiss?” MJ protests from the bed behind them, giving her an exaggerated pout.

 

“Of course you do, MJ,” she says, obligingly catching him around the shoulders and planting a loud, smacking kiss on his forehead. As he giggles delightedly, she turns to the other four and holds an arm out. “Well? Come on, boys, we don’t have all night.”

 

Once they’ve all gotten their goodnight hugs kisses and settled into bed, she gathers up the trash and empty bottles before tucking Aroha under one arm. She takes one last look at the six constructs snuggled in the three bed, heart full and fond, before flicking off the light and setting off down the stairs for her own tiny apartment.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s not an uncommon occurrence for the soda constructs to occasionally spend a night in one of their brothers' beds, but Moonbin can’t remember a time that all of them were huddled together like this, sharing three beds between the six of them. Honestly, they should do it more often, he thinks, currently curled around Jinjin’s small body, both of them lying on their sides like a large spoon nestled against a smaller one. This is nice. A bit cramped and overwarm, sure, but nice. Peaceful.

 

Though… He opens one eye and squints over Jinjin’s head at MJ’s bed, where Sanha is tossing and turning restlessly. He’s going to give that boy two more minutes max to settle down before saying something. This is getting ridiculous.

 

Before he can open his mouth, though, MJ speaks up groggily. “If you don’t stop wiggling like a hyperactive worm, Sanha, you’re going to knock us _both_ off the bed.”

 

Sanha stills, and Moonbin thinks he looks just a tad sheepish in the moonlight filtering in through their curtains. “Sorry, guys,” he apologizes, turning on his left side to face the other four boys. “I guess I just… can’t stop thinking.”

 

“’Bout what?” MJ asks, wrapping his arms around the significantly taller construct’s middle and hooking his chin over his shoulder.

 

“The woman who came to the D.Store earlier. The scary one. She… she wanted to do to me what she did to that poor flower. I could see it. In her eyes. I just…” His voice trembles slightly. “I can’t get her out of my head, no matter how hard I try. I’ve never been scared like that before. Not even of bugs.” He shudders dramatically in MJ’s hold.

 

“I think she would take you being scared of her as a victory,” Eunwoo speaks up from the other far end of the row of beds. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

 

“Besides, Yoojung will protect us,” Rocky adds practically. “You don’t have anything to be afraid of.”

 

“And we’d protect each other, even if she did come back and Yoojung wasn’t around,” Moonbin says staunchly. “Wouldn’t we, Jinjin?”

 

“Of course we would.” Jinjin sounds so sure that everyone automatically feels a little better. “We stick together. Remember what Yoojung always says? We’re a rainbow, and rainbows can’t exist without every color.”

 

“Thanks, guys,” Sanha says, squeezing MJ’s hands where they’re wrapped around him. “I still feel kinda… bad, though.”

 

“How come?” Jinjin inquires.

 

“Because of the other constructs Yoojung talked about. The ones who have to wear clothes that are dirty and ruined all the time, don’t ever get to see or do fun things.”

 

“Who don’t have someone like Yoojung to love them and teach them everything they need to know,” Eunwoo adds softly.

 

“Yeah, exactly,” Sanha replies. “I never thought… that we were that special, you know?”

 

“Speak for yourself,” MJ snorts.

 

“No, I mean, we just… have it real good. I just never noticed it before. We get to eat food sometimes even though technically we don’t need it. We have time off to go to the other shops, to the park, the animal shelter. Moonbin can read his comics, MJ can draw, Eunwoo can go act at the community theater, Rocky can dance, Jinjin can play his drums, I can play my guitar. Yoojung gave us all these things, and she… she didn’t have to. I thought… I thought those were things everyone like us had. That all constructs had creators who loved them, but they don’t. It’s… so sad…” Sanha’s voice breaks, and MJ squeezes him comfortingly around his middle, while Jinjin reaches out for one of his hands and takes hold of it. Moonbin adds his own hand from the arm propped under Jinjin’s neck and presses both of theirs as Rocky takes hold of his free one and Eunwoo nestles closer on the other side of the shorter construct.

 

“That could have been us,” Rocky says what they’re all thinking, quietly, into the dark. “If Yoojung wasn’t a good person. She could have treated us however she wanted, and we wouldn’t know better.”

 

“But we do know better,” Jinjin says firmly. “So we can do something about it. After all, who says that only creators can take care of constructs? We can help them, too, if we ever get the opportunity.”

 

“I like the sound of that,” Moonbin perks up considerably, latching onto the idea of a solution with gusto. “What did you have in mind?” 

 

 “Well, clothes, for one thing,” Jinjin, ever practical, suggests. “Yoojung buys us way more than we could possibly use all at once; if they need some, we could give them a set.”

 

“I could teach them how to play the guitar sometime!” Sanha chimes in with great enthusiasm. “You know, if they’d want to learn.”

 

“We have a lot of extra books, and we can’t read them all at the same time. We could lend them some,” Moonbin proposes.

 

“Even your comic books?” Rocky asks, a teasing lilt interjected into his tone.

 

Moonbin, to his credit, hesitates for only a second before staunchly replying, “Of course! What’s the use of having things if you can’t share them once in awhile?”

 

“Since when do you think that?” MJ says incredulously. “I spill soda on _one_ of your comics and you ban me permanently from reading _any_ of them.”

 

“Hey, that’s a _completely_ different situation, and you know it-!" 

 

 “Kids, kids, settle down,” Jinjin interjects mildly, patting both their hands as the rest of their brothers snicker. “We’re supposed to be winding down right now, remember? I think those are wonderful suggestions, though. Anyone else have any ideas?”

 

The constructs talk a little more, bantering ideas back and forth, before one by one, they start dropping off to sleep. Sanha is first to go, followed swiftly by MJ, who’s still cuddling their youngest from behind like an oversized teddy bear. Moonbin feels Rocky’s hand gradually go slack in his own as his breathing evens out, before Eunwoo gently tugs it out of his so that Moonbin’s arm doesn’t go completely numb during the night from the awkward position it’s twisted into. Still, Moonbin can’t resist giving Rocky’s hand one last reluctant squeeze before finally letting him go. He then wraps his now-free arm around Jinjin’s chest, pulling the shorter boy close and nuzzling his cheek against his soft, dark, reddish-brown hair contentedly.

 

“Yes, yes, love you too, Binnie,” Jinjin murmurs groggily, the smile in his voice evident. Small fingers slip into Moonbin’s and press gently. “Now go to sleep, okay?”

 

“Kay. Night.”

 

“Good night, Moonbin.”

 

Jinjin’s breathing quickly evens out after that, and Moonbin takes a brief moment to relish this feeling of his brothers, his family, pressed close on every side, all of them snug and safe and content in their warm beds. As he finally drifts off to sleep himself, so happy that he feels full to bursting with it, he knows with absolute certainty that nothing, _nothing_ could possibly be better than this.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lotta references to Erisette’s fic [Tipping Point](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15204497/chapters/35264438) here, so if you haven’t read it, you should probably go do that, like, immediately. It’s adorable and precious and a great introduction to the adorable goofballs that are B1A4 if you’re not familiar with them. 
> 
> Only one chapter to go! \o/


	6. Your Smile Welcomed Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a head’s up, this chapter takes place after the events of the rest of the fics in this series; if you haven’t read them, I suggest you go give them a look-see before continuing, though this can still be read as-is. Still, as a reminder:
> 
> N = Smallest -> Starlight  
> Leo = Broken -> Kitten  
> Ken = Loud -> Sun  
> Ravi = Inked -> Cedar  
> Hongbin = her favorite -> Laughter  
> Hyuk = Tallest -> Brother
> 
> Without further ado!

 

 

 

**A few months later…**

 

 

 

Yoojung jerks upright in her chair so suddenly that the pen she’d been holding goes flying in a graceful parabola right into the small duck pond installed in the far corner of the laboratory. She barely hears the loud plunk as it splashes into the water, instead focused completely on the familiar stink of dark magic she feels trip the recently-installed alarm wards in the D.Store. Without missing a beat, she tears off her safety goggles, grabs a startled Aroha from the pillow where she’d been preening herself, tucks the duck under one arm, and storms from the room. Multicolored sparks crackle around her fingertips as she hastens down to the storefront, adrenaline singing through her veins.

 

Boy oh boy, if that witch thinks she can just _waltz_ into her shop after what she did _last_ time without consequence, she’s got another think coming. And if she touches so much as a single, solitary hair on any of her boys’ heads, Yoojung will do a whole lot more than flush her down a toilet, that’s for damn sure. Why, she ought to-

 

She stops short as she reaches the door leading to the storefront. Instead of the blonde, petite woman she expects to see, six tall men fill the store, chatting casually with her boys. Yoojung simply observes the scene for a number of seconds, too confused and startled to do more than try and figure out what in the world is going on.

 

MJ and a man with a large, freckled nose are both speaking so loudly that she can hear them clearly even through the door, bent over a piece of paper spread out on one of the tables that is covered with pictures.

 

“See here, if you use a darker color like brown or purple to shade, then the color will look more natural than if you use just plain black,” MJ is saying, pointing to a spot on the paper.

 

“I never would have thought of that!” the freckled man exclaims, looking at MJ admiringly. “You’re very smart!”

 

MJ actually looks a bit bashful at the praise. “Ah, I’ve just read a few more ‘How to Draw’ books than you probably have, that’s all. If you want, I could give you some lessons sometime.”

 

“I’d love that!” The man beams. “Thank you! I’m learning so much recently, it’s so exciting! I can’t wait to learn about singing from Jungwhan, too.”

 

“Oh, Jungwhan’s going to teach you how to sing?” MJ looks thrilled. “He taught me how to sing, too!”

 

The man seems immensely intrigued. “Really? What’s it like?”

 

“It can be hard at first, but it’s _so_ fun that you won’t even care. You’ll love it, I know you will. I’ll come with you once you’ve picked up the basics, and we can all sing together!”

 

Next to the two happily chatting young men stand Sanha and a muscular, equally tall youth, both looking on the proceedings with interest. As Yoojung watches, Sanha curiously prods the older-looking boy in the arm, making him jump slightly before saying something that makes him look equal parts confused and amused.

 

The next table over, Moonbin is busy examining another’s hands excitedly, specifically the tattoos etched into the skin on the back of them: one has an elaborate six-pointed star, and the other a flowing, abstract pattern that looks slightly like a rolling wave. The tattooed man looks a little discomfited by the close scrutiny, but tolerates the attention with a small, slightly shy smile, which does wonders to soften his features and make him appear far less intimidating than he probably would otherwise.

 

Next to the tattooed man and Moonbin, a slightly shorter, though still quite tall, man with warm, tanned skin sits on the edge of a table next to Jinjin, expression rapt as the smaller boy enthusiastically explains something to him.

 

Just behind them, nearer the back of the store, are the last two men. The one on the left has his arm hooked securely around his companion’s, standing slightly in front of him, as if shielding him. The withdrawn, unapproachable figure he cuts is slightly undermined by the tiny black and white kitten sitting primly on his shoulder, in the middle of daintily washing its little snowy paws. Rocky stands contentedly next to him, the two of them exchanging no words, but seeming to understand each other all the same.

 

And the last one chatting absently with Eunwoo, the one the man with the kitten seems to be oddly protective of… she wrinkles her nose slightly as her attention focuses on him, wondering to herself why he didn't automatically draw her attention first thing. All of the men reek of black sorcery to some extent, but him… it’s like he _bleeds_ it. Like he’s radioactive, almost.

 

“I guess we know what set off the alarm,” Yoojung murmurs to Aroha, not taking her eyes off him.

 

How could any sane person stand being so completely saturated in that dark witch’s magic, though? And it _is_ her magic, no mistaking it. Unless… Yoojung’s eyes narrow slightly, and she cautiously reaches out with her own magic. The instant it brushes against the six men, she knows without a doubt that her suspicions were correct. They’re constructs. Every single one of them.

 

Now that she knows just what she’s looking at, Yoojung can’t resist taking a moment trying to get a feel for how they were put together, and finds herself dutifully impressed at just how well-made they are. The sheer amount of thought and care put into every aspect of their design, from physical appearance to biological makeup, is absolutely staggering. She’d almost be tempted to say they were made with love, if she didn’t know who was exactly responsible for it. As it is, they’re still veritable works of art, incredibly beautiful, impressively durable constructs, ones she could probably study for days and still find new things to marvel at. In addition, it appears their cores were fabricated around… around…

 

Yoojung closes her eyes for a moment and reflexively tightens her grip on Aroha’s feathery body, causing the duck to give a wheezing quack of protest. Of course the dark witch wouldn’t use her own life force to animate her own creations; she’d likely consider that beneath her. So, naturally, she would turn to other sources instead, and sure enough, Yoojung senses copious amounts of animal quintessence flowing through the constructs’ veins. A wolf for the tattooed one, and a little songbird of some sort for the smaller, tanned one beside him. A crow for the loud one, while a fox’s life force animates the tallest one. The inscrutable one with the kitten has, ironically, a cat’s quintessence coursing through him, and the one absolutely drenched in black magic has a hare’s.

 

Yoojung bites her lip, fighting the sudden, intense urge to barge right into the storefront and physically yank her boys away from the pervasive reek of death and rot hanging over these creatures fueled by the stolen life force of innocent, murdered animals like an ominous cloud. Every instinct she possesses screams at her to get them _out_ , get them _away_ from her store and her boys, they don’t _belong_ here… but with immense effort she manages to subdue those thoughts and lock them tightly away in the deepest recesses of her mind. Even though their very presence in her store makes her skin crawl, she knows that whatever heinous circumstances were behind these constructs’ creation, _they_ were not the ones responsible for it; she can’t judge them for something that was in no way their fault. She would be no better than the people she came here to get away from if she did.

 

With a start, she realizes the one that had been talking with Eunwoo is staring straight at her unblinkingly, eerie black crosses in his eyes where pupils should be. She gets the distinct impression that it’s not exactly her he’s looking at, though. This draws the attention of the one with the kitten on his shoulder, which in turn alerts Rocky to her presence as well. He grins widely and waves her in. Taking a deep breath, she enters, smiling back, if a bit less brightly than usual.

 

Every eye turns to her as she steps through the door, Aroha wiggling out of her arms and fluttering down to the floor to walk slightly ahead of her like a guard dog, eyeing the new constructs warily. The one who had been loudly chatting with MJ points in surprise. “Hey, a bird! It’s much bigger than all the other birds we’ve seen so far, too! I like its white feathers; they remind me of snow. Or clouds! It’s a…” His face scrunches up as if he’s trying to remember something.

  
“Duck, I think?” the tall, broad youth beside him supplies helpfully.

 

“A duck! Yes! It is very cute!”

 

“Creature of discernment and taste, that one,” Aroha comments wryly, though Yoojung can tell she’s still a bit flattered. Yoojung finds her smile becoming a little more genuine despite herself.

 

“Oh, Yoojung!” Jinjin perks up, walking toward her and gently tugging the taller construct he’d been speaking with behind him by the hand. “These are the constructs I told you about. This is Starlight,” he points to the one whose hand he’s holding, “Cedar,” the tattooed one, “Brother,” the especially tall, broad one who Sanha seems slightly in awe of, “Sun,” the loud, freckled one, “Kitten,” the one, naturally, with the kitten on his shoulder, “and Laughter.” The one with the unnatural, broken eyes. Yoojung blinks mutely, utterly bemused. When in the world did Jinjin tell her about six constructs seeped in black magic before? Where would he have even met them? More importantly, what are they even _doing_ here? Why aren’t they with their creator? And speaking of their creator, where-?

 

Yoojung abruptly registers that the new constructs are wearing a piecemeal collection of various articles of clothing that she vaguely remembers purchasing for her own boys. Actually, now that she thinks about it, a vague recollection of a conversation she’d had with Jinjin a few days ago comes back to her, where he’d offhandedly mentioned to her while she was in the middle of working the bugs out of a new soda flavor recipe that some magical constructs had showed up in their apartment out of the blue, from a Door that had randomly appeared in their _closet_ , of all things. He and his brothers had ended up giving the constructs some of their clothing to replace the worn, tattered rags they’d been wearing, and there had also been something about some witches trapped in a time loop and a girl trapped in a mirror and something about a stuck Door in Sweet Girl? Yoojung’s not sure. Wait… wait a second… her eyes widen as her brain connects the dots. Wait, _these_ were the constructs Jinjin had been talking about?

 

“Aaaaand you forgot, didn’t you,” Jinjin sighs wearily, giving her that one particular _look_ that makes her still feel like a misbehaving child even though she’s a full eighteen years older than him.

 

“I didn’t!” Yoojung retorts defensively. The incredulous stares she receives from every single one of the soda constructs prompts her to amend her statement slightly. “Okay, so I _might_ have for a _bit_ , but I remember now! Mostly!” A loud chorus of incredulous scoffing noises tells her just how much her boys buy that assertion. “Hey, I do!”

 

“Sis, quit while you’re ahead, okay?” Eunwoo says, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way that tells her he’s trying very, very hard to suppress a mischievous grin. “See, this is why she created us,” he murmurs in a  conspiratorial stage whisper to the visually-impaired construct, Laughter, next to him, who isn’t even bothering trying to hide his wide, dimpled smile. “She’d forget what day of the week it was if we weren’t there to remind her.”

 

_“Quack!”_

 

“And Aroha, of course.”

 

Instead of replying verbally, Yoojung turns to the tall, tanned construct still holding Jinjin’s hand tightly – Starlight, if she’s recalling his name correctly – and rolls her eyes dramatically, gesturing between her boys and duck as if to say “can you believe this disrespect?” She wasn’t particularly expecting any kind of real reaction from the construct, but something inside him seems to unwind a little at the wordless exchange. He smiles at her in reply, even rolling his eyes back in a way that seems to indicate he understands this feeling of fond exasperation _very_ well.  

 

Heartened by this reassuring display of normalcy, Yoojung gathers her courage and holds her hand out to him. “I’m Yoojung. I see you’re apparently already quite familiar with my boys.”

 

The construct’s hand is so large that it almost completely engulfs her considerably tinier one, but his touch is carefully gentle, as if he’s afraid she’ll break if he presses too hard. “Starlight,” he replies in a smooth, mellow tenor. ( _Yes_ , she remembered his name! In your _face_ , Eunwoo!) “And yes, they’re very kind. And very cute.”

 

“Aren’t they?” she beams delightedly as she always does at any praise directed toward her boys, previous annoyance completely forgotten.

 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Jinjin interjects pointedly. “They’re going to be staying with us for a bit in our apartment, Yoojung, just until they decide what to do next. We decided to bring them by the store, first, just to show them where we work.”

 

“They’ve never been in a place like this before,” Sanha adds helpfully, having latched onto the longsuffering Brother’s arm like a persistent barnacle. “Instead of being helpers like us, they said they were created to be toys.”

 

Yoojung freezes, her burgeoning good mood gone as soon as it came as her mind begins turning over every possible interpretation of that sentence. She absently glances down at where Starlight still clasps her hand. The sleeve of his shirt has ridden up a little, and she sees a number of rough, dark red marks encircling his entire wrist, which seem to be layered one on top of another. Her eyes snap back up to his face and she abruptly notices that the white strip of cloth wrapped around his head, peeking out from behind shaggy locks of dark hair, is a bandage, not a headband like she’d been assuming, and his shirt has a few tears in it that are splattered with a dried, dark substance.

 

Stomach churning, she turns her head slightly and runs her eyes over the six constructs once more. Now that she’s nearer to them and knows what to look for, she sees things so many things she’d previously missed, each another damning piece of the macabre puzzle her mind is rapidly assembling against her will:

 

A deep red burn scar that Yoojung had mistaken for another tattoo winds its way up Cedar’s right arm, stopping just underneath his elbow, while an elaborate latticework of jagged scars crisscross the underside of his other forearm and tattooed hand.

 

Scars near identical to the ones around Starlight’s wrist encircle both of Sun’s, in addition to a large, discolored patch on his right forearm that’s mostly covered by the pushed up sleeves of his sweater.

 

A number of deep purplish-blue splotches cover the tall Brother’s knuckles, in addition to the numerous, dark, shiny patches on the visible skin of his arms that almost look like scales.

 

Kitten’s hands are swathed in bandages, the collar of the oversized sweater he wears slipping to one side, revealing deep, straight furrows carved into the pale skin of his neck and shoulder, too evenly spaced to be anything but deliberate.

 

Small, raised blemishes each about one to two inches long that look like they came from puncture wounds of some kind mar the lower half of the backs of both Laughter’s hands and continue up his arms until they disappear under his shirt sleeves. Thin grooves ring his limbs as well, one near his wrist on one arm, the other near the middle of his forearm on the other.

 

Yoojung’s mind briefly flashes back to what that witch had almost done to Sanha, and she strongly suspects that what she had tried to do to him, she _did_ do and more to these six constructs. She sees the carefully concealed wariness – and, in Cedar and Kitten’s cases, outright suspicion – in their eyes and their body language, as if they can’t quite bring themselves to fully relax around her. Even though some seem more at ease than others, particularly Starlight and the outgoing Sun, the tension in them all is almost palpable to some extent or another.

 

Yoojung looks back at Starlight, into those gentle, haunted, so painfully _human_ eyes, and has to swallow back a sudden lump in her throat before she can finally manage to say, “I’m sorry.” Her other hand comes up and covers the back of his, fingertips lightly brushing the rough scars around his wrist accidentally. He flinches minutely, and she immediately presses his hand both in apology and reassurance. “You deserved better.”

 

Starlight’s lips part slightly in shock, eyes widening as he processes her words and their meaning, both spoken and unspoken, before they become slightly misty. He looks so astonished and profoundly, heartbreakingly grateful that someone would even think to say those five, simple words to them that it nearly causes her own eyes to well up. It’s as if this is the very first time anyone has ever told them that. Which, she realizes with a pang, it may very well be.

 

After a moment or two, Cedar evidently decides she's been holding his companion's hand long enough. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Starlight’s waist protectively, resting his chin on his shoulder and regarding Yoojung almost challengingly, though he does overall seem a bit less outright suspicious now. As if some sort of spell has been broken, Starlight gives her hand a brief, parting squeeze before slipping his fingers out of hers and patting Cedar’s arm reassuringly.

 

Moonbin then speaks up, continuing off of Sanha’s previous statement. “Hey, Yoojung, they say they’ve never had soda before, either, can you believe it?”

 

“Yes, they’ve been telling us about it the entire way here,” the loud one, Sun, says. His face scrunches up confusedly. “They say it’s like water, but it’s sweet, so… it’s like tea, then? I _love_ tea, so I would probably love soda, too, if it tastes like tea! But they say it’s bubbly, too. How can water be bubbly if it’s not in a stream or waterfall?” A slow smile begins to creep over Yoojung’s face at Sun’s steady flow of chatter, her mood beginning to perk back up.

 

“Never had soda?” she exclaims dramatically once Sun pauses for breath, planting her fists on her hips resolutely. “Well, that’s just unacceptable. We’ll need to remedy this immediately, now won’t we, boys.”

 

She smiles wider at her boys' answering grins and the other constructs’ bemused looks. She’s no psychiatrist; she doesn’t know the first thing about where to even _begin_ dealing with this metaphorical truckload of emotional baggage that was just unceremoniously dumped on her front doorstep. But making someone’s day a just a little bit better with some water, CO2, sugar, fruit syrup, and a dash of magic? Oh, this... this she can do. There will be ample time to question the new constructs in more detail about their situation later, since Yoojung would very much like to know if that dark witch is still out there somewhere, liable to show up at any moment to collect her playthings. Granted, the only way that would ever happen would be over Yoojung's dead body, but that's neither here nor there. All that can be dealt with later.

 

Right now, it’s time for a soda party.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap, folks! :D Thanks for sticking with this thing all the way to the end. I really appreciate every single kudos and comment I’ve gotten during the process of writing this, they really helped keep me going. I currently have a couple more ideas for fics set in this AU, but I think I’ll work on a couple other projects first before beginning work on them. ^^


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